


A Choice (Not) Made

by megazorzz



Series: Modern Omega [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Clint Barton, Alpha Privilege, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Abortion protesting, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, BAMF Phil Coulson, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint cooking, Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I swear, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In terms of Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Laura Barton as Cousin, Loss, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mention of Child Abuse, Mpreg, Natasha Romanov retcon, Natasha Romanov surgery, No Laura/Clint, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Natasha Romanov, Omega Phil Coulson, Past Child Abuse, Phil Needs a Hug, Post Mpreg, Reproductive Politics, Retcon Age of Ultron, Sexism, Terrorism, The kid fic no one asked for, The pain will be worth it, background Laura/OFC, mention of alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil had gotten used to it. He knew he would never have children of his own and he was okay with that. His life at SHIELD with Clint gave him all the purpose he needed.</p><p>It was amazing to him how one little plus sign can complicate things; he and Clint have a decision to make. </p><p>Things don't go as planned.</p><p> </p><p>*Please read*</p><p>To avoid spoilers in the tags, I am opting not to tag everything that occurs in the story there. Instead, I will  insert a list of potentially sensitive material in the end notes; things already in the tags will be addressed there as well. They will contain spoilers and more details about the story's content in as plain language as I can manage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint collapsed into the porch swing beside Phil. The cushions were warm from Phil's body heat and the last rays of cascading evening sun. Phil was soft and pliant, having just woken from a dead-tired slumber; the plane ride had been a long one, and the previous month at SHIELD even longer.

In between the straw and grass, vibrantly-hued smoke erupted into the humid twilight and, far off, the distant neighbors lit their crackling fireworks, flooding out the sound of singing crickets. The sound of laughter and gentle, nurturing reproach were carried on the slight breeze that winded through the fields and faded in Phil's ears.

Clint earnestly offered an overladen plate as Phil wiped his eyes.

“Hey there big guy. Have a good nap?”

It took Phil a moment to register and sort out the view that stretched out before him: steep hills, swaying wilderness and the sun hanging low over it all. The air was clean and fresh—almost disorienting. Clint's thumb swept across Phil's jaw and he leaned into Clint's palm.

He nodded and took the plate from Clint and began feasting.

“Knew you'd be hungry,” Clint said, arcing his back and cracking his knuckles. “Haven't eaten anything since the airport.”

A second mushroom of purple smoke billowed in the nearby field. The kids giggled as they ran through the fluorescent clouds.

“How long was I out?” Phil asked between mouthfuls.

“Fell asleep right here after Laura gave us the tour,” he chuckled, “She was scared she bored you straight to sleep.” Phil raised his eyebrows. “Don't worry, we all kept ourselves busy with the chores and the grill while you were sleeping.”

Phil wiped his eyes. “I'm sorry, Clint. I swear I was fine and--”

Clint clutched his arm. “No, no, no. Don't worry about it.” Clint looked toward the smokescreen and the small shadows that flitted between the billows. “I'm the one who dragged you out here anyway. It's been a hell of a summer, I shouldn't have.”

Phil stroked Clint's knee in his rugged grip. “No, no, Clint. Your cousin Laura's wonderful. And the farm is breathtaking.” He squeezed. “Really.”

Clint smiled and suddenly they were beset by the Lila and Cooper, each wielding a twig in knightly display. Phil deftly handed the half-devoured plate to Clint and engaged with the raiders with a sleepy roar. He ran behind the nearby wooden post and they pursued him.

Laura leapt up the steps, smelling of woodsmoke and soil, rich and effervescent. “Come on, Uncle Phil has had a really long plane ride. Let him get a little more rest.” She tied her long brown hair into a ponytail.

“Besides,” Clint cried as he bounced up, “No one messes with my omega without my say so!” He raised his hands and gave chase to his giggling niece and nephew, who squealed into the twilight air.

She eased herself onto the swinging bench beside Phil as he worked on his plate. It was strange to Phil how familiar her face was, having only just met her in person.

Clint was never one to get his hopes up as far as family was concerned and Phil shared the sentiment. Words about his mom and dad were spare and dour; Phil never blamed him for letting that part of his past fall by the wayside. But stories involving Barney, his older omega brother, were fond, if sad.

“He taught me how to shoot,” Clint grinned softly, “he regretted it, eventually. Kinda pushed him off his own poster.”

Clint told him all about him once he was back from Alaska. Their bond had at last taken and Clint had been eager to share everything, even things his file didn't elaborate upon; Phil was happy to share in that quiet vulnerability and the few strands of nostalgia Clint could bear.

“You and Nat are all the family I need,” Clint would say.

Until one day when Phil received word from Fury. He summoned him to his office and handed him a nondescript manila envelope, which was cause enough to raise eyebrows. Everything concerning SHIELD was descriptive and tucked according exactly to protocol. Fury said little and told him to peruse it alone. He studied it later that night and promptly bombarded Fury the next morning.

“Why give this to me, Nick? Why now?”

“I had my reasons. But you have my clearance to release this info to Barton. It'll be a softer blow coming from his partner. Alphas get very defensive with family, Coulson. If, say, another Alpha,” Fury started, thumbing his own chest, “were to get in the way of that, things could get ugly.”

He stood up and went to the window. “Wouldn't be my fault, nor his. Just the way we're built. But you're his mate, so he won't want to claw you up.”

Phil knew Fury was joking, but it did little to alleviate the lump in his gut. And he labored over when to perform the big reveal until the stress spilled over and he blurted it out.

“Family just got a little bigger, Clint,” Phil said one chilly evening after hours of agonizing anxiety; he had walked them all over the park, then to the Village, slowly choosing his words while Clint enjoyed the sun. His jaw dropped in disbelief, and his pupils expanded, pushing the blue-gray irises to the edges.

“What?” he said, letting his silverware clatter on his plate, catching the eye of every diner at the small Italian eatery. The next day, Phil waited solemnly outside of Fury's office, hearing Clint bark through the thick, brushed steel doors and listening Fury bite back. The only thing keeping them from really going at it was Fury's ultimate approval to get Clint in contact with one Laura Barton.

It took a few days for Clint to gather the guts to call her. Phil remembered leaning close and kissing his shoulder as Clint made the first call. He felt his Alpha's heart beating through his ribcage, and his own responded in kind. His words began low in his throat, from a place of shaky uncertainty. It carried on like that well into the third or fourth call.

Phil didn't know how he would respond in Laura's shoes; not only was she hearing from Clint for the first time in decades, but being bound to secrecy not only about Phil and Clint, but the government assigned protection that had secretly been observing them from afar. It was a big pill to swallow. But her warm reception surprised even Phil and suddenly there the two of them were, spending the eve before the 4th of July on her porch, watching the sun set and her children play.

The sun had finally settled behind the trees and the kids began clearing away the fire pit; “For more serious tech,” Clint had told them.

“Still can't believe it,” she said, stacking the scattered plates. “Never thought in a thousand years I'd hear from Clint again.”

“Why is that?” Phil asked quietly, eyes tracking his Alpha and the kids. Of course he's heard accounts of Clint's childhood: the neglect leading to abandonment, the daily struggle, the circus. Phil did not want to burden her with any details that had managed to pass her by; it was Clint's place to tell her. Apart from that, this weekend was a celebration, more so because of the reunion of long-lost cousins than the mandated holiday.

“I don't remember when I met Clint's family for the first time. My parents, though, they used to tell me stories,” she said, brow furrowing as she dumped the silverware into a nearby glass. The crickets chirped louder. “Clint's dad was my uncle on my dad's side. The stories my dad used to tell, Jesus.” She shook her head and fiddled with the tip of her ponytail. “He was the worst kind of Alpha. Parents kicked him out as soon as possible.” She paused, eyes scanning Phil's face.

She turned back to the stack of plates. “You probably know more about it than I do. Let's just leave it at that.”

“Agreed,” Phil sighed.

Phil's brain re-engaged, thinking of Clint's dad in the same sterile lens that he used to interpret the piles of data in his paperwork, cultivating a cool distance. He had to. He wasn't always successful. He recalled his vicious outbursts, the constant posturing, the drinking; Phil choked it all down. It never puzzled him any longer that Clint had tested the Alpha suppressants so willingly afterwards.

His ears perked up. Lila and Cooper watched as Clint lit a larger tube in the fire pit and all three cheered as jets of sparks shot into the air, Clint just as amazed as either of them. Phil smiled.

“He's really good with the kids, isn't he?” she said, smiling softly and sighing in relief.

“He has a lot of love to give,” Phil said.

She shoved his shoulder and grinned. “Clint was right, you're such a sap.”

Phil watched Clint light another smoke bomb with Lila and Cooper watching nearby, eyes widening as the violet smoke blended and coiled with the twilight sky, illuminated by the hectic jet of sparks. He set the empty plate down and clasped his hands together, watching Lila's ponytail bob as she ran through the tall grass with Clint and Cooper in tow.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Laura said, rubbing her stomach. “Having some pups?” She giggled. “You're an omega, of course you have. It's kind of hard not to, like it or not.”

Phil nodded and chuckled. “True. I used to think about it all the time.” He smiled softly. “It would have been nice for my mom and dad to see a grandkid running around the old house. It was always sort of cavernous, being an only child and all.”

He paused and reclined into the porch swing. “But you know how it goes. Sometimes things just don't line up right. I'm getting on in years and with our line of work...”

Laura hummed. “I know what it's like to wait for someone you love to come home safe and sound,” she said.

“I wouldn't want to put my kid through that. The waiting.”

Laura nodded in quiet understanding and rubbed her stomach. She was beginning to show. “Sometimes Alexis doesn't get the chance to call or send a note. Lila and Cooper start to worry when that happens.”

“Where is Alexis now?” Phil asked. Clint wrestled with them in the grass.

“Switzerland.” She rubbed her belly. “She's writing a long story on reproductive rights. How they're lightyears ahead of us and how there's still backlash even there.”

“It's a topic that sorely needs coverage,” Phil said. They fell quiet.

“How long until she gets back?” he asked.

“Her last email said mid August, but I'm gonna tack on a couple more weeks. I'm usually right.”

“You must be proud, though,” Phil said. “It's difficult to thrive in that field and topics like that bring out the worst of the worst.”

“I am. All three of us are,” she said, retreating into her thoughts. “Whenever I feel lonely, it gives me something to focus on. That she's doing some good for the world...she loves it.”

They sat together in comfortable silence as the last of the fireworks spilled into the night air. This wasn't a side of Clint Phil had seen before, but, seeing him play so easily with the kids, he knew it came naturally to him, almost instinctively.

His heart raced as he contemplated the possibility of children. A low, humming ran through him as he pictured it. No doubt it was his hormones at work, toiling in their instinctual drive, so he let the fantasy unfold—at least until it crumbled, as they so frequently did.

Clint and Phil would buy a place by the shore, away from the city lights and noise. Phil had always been a frugal sort and Clint had never been a big spender. Clint could chop wood and build a fire on the sand and Phil could read to her as the soft roll of waves put her to sleep. They'd find the best kindergarden for her, then middle school and, before they knew it, they would be sorting through piles of college pamphlets and calendars, planning visits and itineraries.

Of course, this fantasy assumed that the world was right, that SHIELD was no longer necessary and once more their lives would be theirs to live and to cherish. Phil's brow darkened as he considered it. Beyond the quiet borders of Laura's farmland was an ocean of wild tumult, whose waves Clint and Phil and even Alexis threw themselves into almost daily. He crossed his arms.

Phil thought of the baby waiting at home in her crib, alone save for a SHIELD assigned nanny, never knowing her parents, out of synch with their voices, tiny hands reaching out for the mobile hanging above, deprived.

“Have you ever thought about a name?” she asked. She covered her mouth. “I'm sorry, that's really presumptuous isn't it?”

“No, no,” Phil reassured her. “I don't mind.”

She smiled and scooted closer over the cushions. “Okay, favorite name, if you had to choose right now.”

“Julie,” Phil said simply, heart warming at the mere utterance. “No doubt about it.”

“That's a beautiful name,” Laura said, eyes searching and compassionate. “Julie,” she said, testing it on her lips.

“Is he telling you about his ma, Laura?” Clint asked, sweating and slightly out of breath. He held an armful of other fireworks and sparklers. Lila and Cooper peaked out from behind him, frazzled and worn, smiles wide as Laura's acres.

He set the supplies aside and motioned for the kids to sit on the steps. He stepped down between them. “Let me tell you about your great-aunt Julie, all right? She was a real spit-fire, just like you two.”

Laura sat on the edge of her seat, grinning at Phil.

  


* * *

  


After the kids were put to bed and the hollow remains of the fireworks, Laura, Phil and Clint were seated around the round kitchen table, the latter two slowly draining a bottle of red wine, which she poured liberally into their glasses. Phil sat close to Clint, and he rubbed his shoulders.

“He's had some trouble sitting still in class,” she continued. “He's just so full of energy. Could run a whole power grid off him, I swear.”

Clint yawned and stretched. “I know. He was right on my heels the whole time. Really wore me out.”

“Lila's a handful too,” Phil added.

“I'll have to write a book,” Laura said, smoothing out her hair. “Twins? And both Alphas?” She sipped her seltzer. “ _I_ could've used a warning, that's for sure. Mom had no advice on that front. Me and my sis were both omegas.”

“And the bun in the oven?” Phil asked.

She shook her head. “Too soon to say. My doctor says we'll be able to tell soon, though.”

Clint took a big swig. “I can handle 'em. They're going to go bonkers over the real fireworks tomorrow,” Clint said. “It's gonna be a riot.”

“Hey, I thought the smoke bombs were pretty cool,” Phil said. “And less of a fire hazard.”

“Now you're sure it's not too much trouble to drive them to town?” Laura asked. “You were pretty tuckered out this afternoon, Phil. And Clint's probably going to be exhausted tomorrow. I'd go myself, but I have to pick up some things before the big barbecue.”

“It's no trouble at all, Laura,” Phil said.

“We _are_ literally secret agents, you know,” Clint chuckled. “I'm sure we can handle a couple of tykes.”

Phil felt Clint's hand creep over his, sending shivers through his skin. That little crooked smile was on his lips again as his eyes met Phil's.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sometimes I forget that you both handle so much on a daily basis.” She said, waving her hand.

“Why's that?” Clint asked. “We don't seem scary enough for you?”

She refilled his glass. “I've seen videos of you with your bow, and that's plenty scary.” She tied her hair back. “What I meant was that I wouldn't be so well-adjusted, you know? You don't exactly work in the safest field.”

Clint looked to Phil. He was deep in thought, looking past the oak kitchen table and far off into his memories: bombs igniting, buildings collapsing, the harsh crack of gunfire and bloodied bandages and close calls too recent to joke about.

“Woah. No one's ever called me 'well-adjusted' before,” Clint said, attempting levity.

Phil pecked him on the cheek. “You're perfect, Clint.”

“I'm sorry,” Laura said. “I didn't mean it that way. You're so good with the kids.” She refilled his glass.

“They balance each other out,” Clint said. “Lila and Cooper.”

“Do you ever hear from Barney?” Laura asked. Clint went quiet. Phil stroked his thigh. Laura recoiled slightly, realizing she had tread on sensitive ground.

“I'm sorry, Clint. I didn't know.”

Clint cleared his smile and attempted a smile. “No, no, it's okay. No way you could've known, really. I didn't want to break he news too soon.”

Phil watched Clint carefully. Sometimes his light went out when he thought about Barney; after he and Clint left home, they were all they had to rely on, even when the traveling circus adopted them as they're own. But then Barney started to present as an omega, and things changed.

The others would harass him and taunt him, touting him as the next big act; he took to sleeping in the spare cage near the end, key tucked under his chin. Clint didn't realize what they meant back then; his parents told them little to nothing and he never took a health class.

Barney's eventual escape left him devastated and confused. Clint had begged Barney not to leave, or to take him with him.

“And you know what he said?” Clint asked, wiping his eyes. “He said that I was _lucky_. He said that he couldn't ever be on his own because he wasn't an Alpha—that he either had to partner up or strike out all alone and be away from everyone.”

Clint stumbled across his body three days later, lying off the highway. He was crossing in the dark all alone. They never found the driver. The grave was improvised, tucked in the ditch near the soybean fields, a lone wreath its only marker. Wildflowers.

They fell quiet for a moment. Laura reached across the table and Clint sniffed and smiled. “But it's good, you know? That Lila and Cooper have each other.”

“I've always wanted a little brother or sister,” Phil said, leaning in close. “You were lucky to have him in your life, Clint.” He raised his glass and Clint raised his. They drank from each other's glasses. Laura cleared her throat.

“They've already asked me when you two will be visiting next,” Laura added. “It's all they could talk about when I was putting them to bed.”

“Really?” Clint said, voice clearing up. “They want us to come back?” He looked to Phil and he smiled.

“Of course,” Laura said, grabbing both of their hands. “You're family. Both of you.”

He felt Clint squeeze his thigh under the table and he moved moved closer. Phil could feel his breath, sense his heartbeat.

They continued talking late into the night and once Laura's wakefulness was depleted, she showed them to the guest housing over the garage.

Once she stepped out, they changed into their pajamas and switched off the light. Clint collapsed into bed next to Phil, wrapping his arms tight around Phil's middle. It was a bit softer than it used to be. He nuzzled the crook of Phil's neck, teasing with a stray tooth.

He felt Clint harden against his rear.

Phil sighed warmly, feeling desire churn in his stomach. Clint intensified his advances and Phil responded in kind.

“I don't wanna make a mess of Laura's guest room,” Phil moaned. He was already too far gone. He felt the low growl in Clint's chest at his back and the drag of nails on his skin. Clint turned him on his other side and folded Phil into his embrace.

“Maybe just a quickie,” Phil said after a barrage of wet kisses.

“That's my Phil,” Clint growled and sat them both up and stripped off his shirt. Phil ran his hands over Clint's bare stomach and chest, letting his nails drag across the skin. Clint sighed, eyes penetrating into his.

He threw his leg over Clint's and straddled him. He let Clint's hands glide up his torso, unbuttoning each button of his pajama top until it flowed loose and open. Clint sat up. He pinched each nipple, paving a trail of kisses up the trail of hair and up to Phil's throat.

Already he felt Clint's girth beneath him and his body opened up to him.

“Just a second,” Phil said, scrambling off the bed. Clint's eyes followed as Phil stripped off his bottoms and his boxers, which had already absorbed some of the damp of his slick. He darted to the bathroom and grabbed some towels.

“What happened to not making a mess?”

Phil cocked an eyebrow. “It's easier to buy her new towels than a new mattress.”

“Fair enough,” Clint said, kicking off the bed. Phil watched his cock bounce beneath the thin cotton jersey boxer briefs.

Clint laid kisses behind his ears as Phil removed the bedding and smoothed the towels over the mattress. Before he could turn around, Clint pushed Phil face first onto the carefully laid out towels and crawled on top of him.

Phil felt wet bites mark him up. “Not above the collar, agent,” he said, wishing to forestall any impromptu discussions of “The Alphas and the omegas” with Lila and Cooper.

Clint grunted in reply as he sucked a potent splotch into his left shoulder blade. Phil tucked his wrists beneath his chin, savoring the chills gliding up and down his spine as Clint continued to mark him and claim his territory.

Around the crown of his spine, Phil moaned and he involuntarily thrusted his ass into Clint's crotch.

“Why are those still on?”

“Sorry,” Clint said. He jumped off Phil. Clint waited until Phil had his eyes on him to strip off the gray briefs, letting the waistband slide slowly down his shaft. Phil slid to the end of the mattress just in time for the head of Clint's cock to bounce out of the restricting briefs. He took him in hand and began stroking him.

Clint bit his lip as Phil worked the head, licking his lips. In the moonlight, Phil's eyes met his. He dipped closer and Clint took a shallow breath. Phil teased with his wet lips before taking him in his mouth. Clint made small thrusts into Phil's mouth, relishing the tide of his tongue.

Clint's nostrils flared. “Get yourself ready for me.” Phil obeyed, letting himself fall into a crouching position, legs spread wide. He trailed a finger from his cock to his ass and let it get moist with his slick. His skin felt tight over his form.

“That's right.”

Phil continued sucking on Clint's cock as he eased the first few fingers in and out, watching Clint's eyes follow the bobbing of his wrist. Even during his shortened bouts of hormones, he sometimes had to work himself open. But right now, he wanted it. He let his vision blur around the edges, leaving only Clint clear and crisp. The slide inside grew easy.

Clint leaned over and kissed Phil, letting his tongue delve into Phil's waiting mouth. He squatted down and hooked an elbow beneath each knee, lifting Phil from his low position and arranging him neatly on the bedspread.

He leaned in close again, and Phil studied his wide pupils. He always adored Clint's eyes, not only for their clarity, but for their transparency; and right now he was on the hunt and Phil was more than ready to give in and be caught. He ran his hands through Clint's sandy hair. Clint caught his wrist and sniffed his fingers, growling in delight.

Phil gasped as he took each and every digit into his mouth, sucking greedily and punctuating each fingertip with a sharp pop. He was pouring sweat, whether it was from the hot summer's night or merely an omega response, he couldn't suss out.

Clint reached down and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead, leaning over and planting a kiss. His hips were slowly rolling, the shaft of his cock sliding between Phil's cheeks. He whimpered as he passed the head over his hole. Phil's cock was flush against his stomach, leaking precum near his bellybutton.

Clint licked a hot stripe at the shell of his ear. “Are you ready?”

Phil nodded. Clint began pushing in and he wrapped his arms tightly around his neck.

This position he loved the best; he loved the merging pool of their sweat, the haze inspired by his Alpha's rough breathing, sending shivers down his jaw and neckline all the way to that precious gland that throbbed near his collarbone He loved the rub of their bodies and feeling the ripple of his Alpha's muscle press against his chest.

Phil let out tiny, aborted whimpers as Clint pressed further in, his pace becoming faster and more unforgiving.

“So perfect. Mine,” Clint gasped between thrusts.

Phil was in no mind to reply, for he couldn't form the words and phrases to tell his Alpha how much he loved his knot, his voice, his smile, and the quiet placid and roaring fires he inspired in him.

The head of Clint's cock rubbed against his prostrate and Phil whimpered, wrapping his legs around Clint's waist. He let him settle there. Clint stood straight, watching the his pliant, melting omega through a heady haze. He reached backward and grabbed Phil's ankles which were settled above his pert ass. He brought his legs straight up and let his shoulders bear the weight.

“So slick, Jesus,” Clint muttered, letting his grip tighten around Phil's ankles, which jut out above his shoulders.

“For you. Only you.”

Clint huffed through his nostrils and smirked. “Who else?”

He picked up the pace. His pelvis left sweltering red marks against Phil's ass. Frantically seeking leverage, Phil clawed at the towels and then the bedspread. He brought a spare cloth to his mouth and bit down hard, letting his more salacious moans escape through his nose. They began deep in his stomach and traveled through his lungs and capillaries all the way to his mouth, letting his Alpha know that he was claimed and waiting.

Clint set a punishing pace and Phil took it, throat becoming increasingly hoarse until Clint finally grunted and growled in his chest. He breathed through his nose, eyes widening at Phil's scent, the musk and cologne all melding together.

He doubled over again as he felt the jets of cum burst from his cock. Phil nearly chuckled at the spurts of pressure and wet. They lay like that for a minute or so, breathing heavily, Clint gnawing at Phil's collarbone and Phil stroking his head and shoulders.

Just as he was about to extricate himself, Clint felt his knot expand, rooting him to the spot.

Clint chuckled, “Oh hey there, didn't know you were coming.”

Clint hitched up Phil's legs and moved them to the center of the bed, where he toppled on his side to lie with his omega.

Clint was quiet and sated. He ran his hands over every patch of skin that he could reach, making Phil moan. He was loose and relaxed and quiet. They didn't break eye contact until the knot subsided and he pulled out.

Phil turned over, letting Clint sidle up to his back and wrap him in a tight embrace, despite the heat. “Sorry about that,” Clint whispered. “Guess we caught another mini-heat. Haven't seen one of those in a while, huh?”

“Looks like it,” Phil said. He looked over his shoulder. “I wouldn't get too comfortable, Barton. I may have need of your services pretty soon.”

His skin still felt tight and no amount of touch would satisfy him fully. They had another, quieter bout before they finally fell asleep, entangled with one another, Clint's snoring not quite drowning out the wind in the leaves or the chirp of summer crickets.

 

  


* * *

  


They stayed for the rest of the week and into Sunday. On Monday they lingered for brunch. Their goodbyes weren't long, but frequent, as if the small degrees of farewells would lessen the goodbye.

Laura thanked Clint for his calls and Clint brushed it off. “I'm just thankful you didn't hang up on me,” he said. “That's I would've done.”

Phil crouched to shake hands with Lila and Cooper, the goodbyes they received every bit as friendly and genuine. They wanted Clint to teach them how to fire his bow next time he visited. Laura politely shot it down.

Her final embrace was a vice-grip. “See you soon, boys,” she said, an arm wrapped around a shoulder each.

Once the final goodbyes were delivered, Clint and Phil got into their rented Buick and started the long the drive to the airport. Clint flipped through the miscellaneous photos of their trip while Phil drove, already commenting and ruminating on them as if they were already old dear memories; and he still had a couple rolls of film to develop as well. He still had his phone in hand as they unloaded their luggage on the curb.

They both agreed on taking a regular plane cross country. A SHIELD jet would have been far faster, but the lines and Holiday traffic drew a comforting curtain of normalcy over the affair; visiting family wasn't frequent for Phil and entirely new to Clint and they decided to go the old fashioned route, as it were. Even the food poisoning Phil later received from the airport food court added to the mundanity.

It struck early in the morning and abated in the early afternoon the day after. Phil spent the rest of the day recuperating, quietly reviewing his work calendar. Clint was ever attentive and caring, bringing him small comforts throughout the day: bowls of sweet fruit, a gossip mag from the bodega a few blocks down and blankets upon blankets, despite the summer weather.

It bordered on coddling, but something inside Phil told him not to fight it.

He slid a glass of water and an antacid over to Phil before settling near him. He again nuzzled the gland at Phil's neck, breathing deeply.

“Clint, I've been sick all morning,” Phil said in half-hearted protest. “I don't want you catching anything. It might be a bug.”

Clint merely shook his head. “It was just the rotten airport food.” He wrapped an arm around Phil and grabbed the TV remote. “Besides, you smell good. Can't get enough.”

He sat close to him—crowded him really—but, Phil welcomed his Alpha's touch. He was still languid and loose.

He had slept like a baby all week at the farm. Even the kids had gotten up earlier than Phil had and he apologized for holding up the day's itinerary each time he had slept in.

Laura smiled and giggled each time. “You really don't know what a vacation is, do you?”

Clint flipped on some reality show and they cuddled through the entirety of it, neither really paying attention. Instead Phil focused on the sweeping touches on his neck and shoulders, enjoying the vague, unfamiliar warmth they ignited—as if he were fulfilling a primal duty.

“I don't think I've ever seen you so relaxed,” Clint said. “We need to get you outta town more often. Maybe we could take them to the beach.”

“I don't think they would like the long drive,” Phil murmured.

“In the jet, then?”

Phil only whined in response as Clint slid his hand under his threadbare shirt and over his stomach.

  


* * *

  


The next few weeks were as close to typical as SHIELD could be. Clint had a couple short-term operations with Phil as his handler, two local affairs not lasting more than a few days. Phil sorted through the rubble and paperwork both times.

At the apartment, however, Clint was never far out of reach. Every touch and caress lingered for just a moment longer. Clint's fingers frequented his bare skin: when Phil did the dishes, he'd come and wrap his arms about his waist, bare chested, and simply breathe in Phil's scent.

And some indescribable presence made itself through their halls; perhaps it was just the knowledge that somewhere out there, that Clint had more to call his own.

“Clan pride,” Phil's father Robert used to say. The next time Laura called, Clint quickly had her set aside another long weekend for them to jet over and visit.

“And Alexis will be back by then, right?” he asked eagerly.

“Of course!” her voice echoed over the speaker phone. “Though, I might want to warn you. She's a fantastic cook. She will stuff you both like a Thanksgiving turkey. I wouldn't bother with jeans or slacks. I'd bring sweats.”

“And the kids? They'll have that Monday off, right?”

“Don't worry, Clint. You'll see the kids,” Laura insisted.

Additionally, they both waited eagerly for Natasha's return from Amsterdam, where she had spent the better part of two months on another slow-burn mission.

Phil had just finished another report when Natasha's familiar curt knock sounded at his office door.

He was met with powerful outstretched arms. He patted her on the back and she pulled away, eyes running up and down his frame, analyzing.

She broke her stare and wandered over to her usual spot on his gray leather couch without commenting on the exchange.

“Where are the photos? You remembered to take photos, right?”

“No, I memorized the SHIELD handbook, but I didn't remember to take pictures of Clint's family,” Phil joked. That earned him a reprimanding shove on his shoulder as he sat next to her, small album folded in his arms. He went to open it, but Natasha stilled his hand over the album's cover.

“I want to wait for Clint,” she said. “He texted and said he would be over soon.” She crossed one knee over the other and tousled her curly locks. “How have you two been?”

“As normal as could be expected,” Phil said. He shifted, ignoring small pinch in his stomach.

“Oh?”

“What do you mean, 'Oh?'”

She leaned back, as if to get a better angle on him, humming all the while. “I can tell when something's up, Phil,” she said, throwing a suspicious eye toward him. “Is Clint trying out something new in bed?”

“Excuse you,” Phil chuckled.

She was unconvinced. “Just calling it how I see it.”

“It could be the fact that Clint has family out there,” Phil said. Another knot curled up in his stomach. He sat up and readjusted his belt. “It's kind of a big deal. Laura is amazing and her kids are practically angels. It feels...it feels nice. Less adrift.”

He considered the vast fields of swaying grass. “It must be a great place to grow up. Away from...away from all this,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the window which looked out onto the city skyline. Anxiety and thankfulness and something else he couldn't quite identify twitched again.

Suddenly he was snapped from his thoughts. The door swung open and Clint rushed in, quickly seizing Natasha and the little leather bound photo album on the coffee table.

“Go good?” he asked.

“Yes, Clint.”

“All the bad guys taken care of?”

Natasha smirked. “Well, obviously.”

“Good. We can stop talking about work and start talking about something interesting,” he said, flipping through the glossy photos.

They started at the beginning of the week—even one unsightly photo of Phil snoring away on the plane—and Clint's excitement stretched on in sentences lacking punctuation as they proceeded through the photos of lush, rural wildlife.

“And here's Cooper again. The fireworks were pretty loud, that's why he's covering his ears,” Clint said, stroking Phil's back in a steady rhythm.

“And here's Lila showing me the ropes for milking the cow,” Phil said. In the photo Phil was squinting against the bright sunlight, Lila practically hanging off of his neck near his near empty bucket.

“It's harder than it looks.” He adjusted himself again, but it did little to alleviate the unsettling current in his gut.

“You okay, Phil?” Clint asked, pulling away slightly.

He nodded. “Just an upset stomach. It will pass.”

“And you'll be meeting Alexis…?” Natasha asked, turning slowly though another few pages.

“Soon,” Clint said, gripping Phil's hand. “Really soon. And you'll meet them soon too.”

That fact didn't stop him from going on and on about their school and about Laura and Alexis and the life they had made for themselves and how he really leaned into Fury about keeping all of this love and family from him. Phil and Natasha listened to his excited rant, which only stopped when Phil checked his watch. Clint pulled his wrist over and checked as well.

“Crap. I have to get going.” He bounded up and put on his jacket. “Have to test out a new bow with Research and Development.”

“I'll walk you there,” Natasha said, throwing a glance toward Phil. “I have a bone to pick with Zane.”

“Is this about his so-called 'invisible' headset?” Phil interjected, standing to see them off.

“Not so invisible,” Natasha said under her breath. “Almost became a liability.”

“We can't have that.” Clint deposited the album on the shelf and gave Phil's hand a squeeze. “And you, go to the medical ward if you don't feel good, alright?”

“You know,” Phil said, crossing his arms and accepting another kiss on the cheek, “I once made a perfectly functional cast out of nothing but tree bark and wheat paste when I broke my arm in Kazakhstan. I think I can survive a tummy ache.”

“Okay, okay! Just makin' sure. See you at home.” Phil waved and brought his hand to his stomach.

Once they were gone, he began gathering up the files for the next briefing, battling a wave of nausea. He dropped an antacid tablet and chugged the resulting fizz and marched off to the conference room. By the time he arrived, everyone else was seated and ready to begin and already he could tell that the news would not be happy or pleasant. He expected no less.

Maria Hill greeted him and took her place at the podium in front.

An extremist group, born from the ashes of two others that SHIELD had assisted in dissolving, was sweeping through northern Africa and parts of the Mediterranean. News of their methods and tactics ran through every media outlet: beheadings, propaganda videos, even a Twitter account. Any and every atrocity was considered a useful tactic. Phil loosened his tie.

Phil had known from the start of this operation that it, like a slow poison, would take its toll on all involved. Phil felt sick even reading the preliminary reports. Maria cleared her throat and forged on.

“In addition to an increased number of threats sent to the local media outlets and to smaller municipalities, there are reports of more extreme measures being implemented. Turn to page twenty-three.”

The plate of pastry made another round and Phil waved it away, his stomach roiling. His focused blurred and he steadied his hand on his forehead as he contemplated the horrific conjunction of words underlined in red. “Child soldiers.”

“Already they've demonstrated a lack of regard for human life—the lives of bystanders, specifically. This was an expected development. Powers world-wide are condemning the action formally, but clearly they have little care for such admonishments.”

Phil's stomach twisted. “Where do they come from? The children?”

She sighed and removed her glasses. “Anywhere where this group has been active. Libya, parts of rural Egypt and Syria. All attempts at negotiation have failed. The only communication they will entertain goes outward only. Sometimes they reach as far as western and central Europe. France and Austria have elevated their status to 'threats to national security.'”

Phil shut the file; his headache began searing his skull and a fresh wave of nausea swept through him. “How do they recruit?”

“They prey on some of the weaker parts of their jurisdictions. Rural areas for the most part, it seems.” The map behind her magnified a rural farming region. “In addition to receiving fresh recruits from abroad, they also have initiated a campaign of coercion and kidnapping.” A red X appeared on the map. “At of 0800 hours local time, a school group was taken into protective custody by the local—”

The nausea crested and Phil suddenly pushed away from the table and rushed out of the room. He wobbled on his feet and into the nearest restroom. He barely made it through the stall door before collapsing onto his knees and succumbing to the vile current in his stomach.

  


* * *

  


“Can you fiddle with the supporting carbon skeleton?” Clint said to the technician. “The draw would be smoother if there were more support on the upper riser—sounds contradictory, I know. Lower one's good, though.” The technician nodded and left to adjust the bow. He picked up the second model.

He tightly grouped three arrows in the center of the mark and handed that one off to another technician. “Yeah, more like this one,” he said, rotating his shoulder. “Go tell the other guy that this one is smoother.”

Natasha leaned against the wall behind him, watching Clint adjust the cams and angles of the limbs of the gleaming bow. Another three arrows and finally they were alone, save for the marksmen in the neighboring lanes.

“And you're sure nothing's different?” she said, cocking an eyebrow.

“I already told you, Phil and I are great. The vacation did him a lot of good—can't wait to get back out there.” He drew back the arrow and planted it in the center. “Our bond's _finally_ solidified and...we're just really good, that's all.”

She hummed.

“What?” Clint said, setting down the bow and turning toward her and she turned away, pondering. “What?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing. If you're happy, I'm happy. I guess I've been gone too long. I just have to get used to your sappy, lovey-doveyness again, I suppose.”

Clint huffed. She walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have to go take care of something. Dinner later?”

Another bullseye. “Sure. No takeout though. Phil hasn't been too hot on that lately.”

“No more Dynasty Wok?” she said in faux-shock.

“He had some pretty bad food poisoning after we flew back,” Clint said. “Wouldn't recommend it.”

She couldn't believe Clint was so dense. “I have to file some paperwork, Clint. See you later?”

“Yeah,” he said, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

Her heels clicked in the vast halls, a determined gait. She would have to speak with Phil. Something was definitely off, she knew it.

“Clarity,” her mentor had told her all those years ago. She could never forget that day. Snow gathered in the eaves and gutters and, outside the tall narrow windows of the dance studios, was blinding white fields, interrupted only by the gravel roads and the dark, winding limbs of trees.

“What we all require is clarity.”

“I understand,” Natasha said, determined and steely. She was younger then, but not naive. Never was she naive.

She winced as she recalled the clatter of wheels that delivered all of the students, one by one, to the tiled chambers in the bowels of the ballet hall. The smell of antiseptic and rubber followed, but she had faced both of them head on. This was her decision, after all.

She passed the windows facing the Hudson and she paused to consider the leaves in the park nearby. Most were green, but some were already yellowed in preparation for autumn.

Freedom from the haze of heats allowed her to see the world with clearer, more reliable eyes, ones less easily swayed. She touched the glass. It was necessary—not a choice she would force on anyone else, but one she would repeat gladly.

It gave her the edge she needed on the field. Even her sense of smell was piqued, able to parse out the subtle nuances of Alpha posturing and omega cycles, both of which she readily exploited in her life of espionage.

When she was recruited by SHIELD, when Phil and a trio of other agents had finished whittling her down to her core with endless cross-examinations, he had said to her, “You'll be living your life for countless others now.”

Her mentor had shared a similar sentiment; she was an instrument now, a tool used to shape the rest of the world. Tools didn't have lives and that very possibility would have to be expunged. “For the greater good,” her mentor had said.

“I know,” she said to him. “Neither of our lives are wholly ours.” He agreed with his silence. It was ironic; a life lived for countless others could not be lived for one of your own kin.

A loud clatter sounded over her left shoulder, shaking her from her reverie. She spotted Phil at the end of the corridor, stumbling into the men's room. She marched toward the door, pushing it open in time to hear the second flush.

She saw Phil's impeccably polished shoes—Prada—underneath the furthest stall. She knocked on the stall and received only a groan. She scented the air. Her suspicions were confirmed.

“Food poisoning?” she asked with a hefty dose of skepticism. “Come on, we're going to the med ward.” She helped him to his feet and he gently wrested himself from her aid. He rinsed out his mouth and, after nearly vomiting again, he agreed to be escorted.

He told her about the more bitter points of the briefing, pausing before bringing up the kidnappings and forced recruitment.

“We'll tackle that later, for now let's just get you to Dr. Harvey,” Natasha said, leading Phil down the corridor. And luckily, she was unoccupied. She was now more familiar with Phil's medical history, and would be the ideal woman to pinpoint the source of Phil's nausea. And to spell it out clearly for him.

Natasha waited in the lobby while Phil was led to the back.

Dr. Harvey readied the examination table and performed the battery of tests. “Any big changes recently? Are you eating okay?”

The anti-nausea medication was already beginning to take effect. “Eating less takeout, I guess. That can't be a bad thing.” Dr. Harvey asked why. “Had a bad bout of food poisoning after Clint and I returned from our vacation. Can't even look at lo mein anymore without feeling queasy.”

“I see,” Dr. Harvey said, retrieving his file. His answers for her other questions were equally bland—nothing out of the usual. Except for the occasional cramp. And weird craving. “Usually peanut-butter related,” Phil admitted.

“Lie down for me.” He did and she pressed around various points of his abdomen with her gloved fingers. She asked if it hurt when she pressed down here and there, and each time Phil said no. She then handed him a small plastic cup. He filled it and returned the capsule to Dr. Harvey, who made a quick run to the lab.

Phil wracked his mind as to the cause of this sudden turn. The news from the briefing disgusted him. However, such facts was part of his life and he had long learned to endure them. Despite that, something about the slew of atrocities threw him further off balance than usual. He sighed. He relegated the physical outburst to Clint's nephew and niece. Such happy faces when such sadness was out there in the world. He breathed in deeply, firming his resolve.

Children had only very rarely been part of his adult life. He had been an only child and he had lost touch with many of his high school and college friends over the years, many of whom were no doubt beginning families of their own.

Seeing their smiles and the lights of the fireworks dance on their innocent faces had stirred him, however. Phil found his normal protective instincts enhanced even through his vicarious involvement with Clint's clan. That must have been it, he concluded.

However, once Dr. Harvey returned, Phil knew something larger was at work by the way she walked. She withdrew a small slip of paper and handed it to Phil.

“I remember your family history, Phil,” she started, “and it was more out of habit than anything else when I conducted _this_ test.But...something turned up positive.”

Phil's hands trembled as he slowly unfolded the page. A small, seemingly inconsequential plus sign was printed in the bottom right corner. His eyes ran over it again and again, yet he still didn't believe something so implausible, impossible even. All of his adulthood, the long endurance of a life of service taught him not to hope or even attempt, but to forge ever onward for the sake of others.

“I'm...pregnant?” He paused, looking back from Dr. Harvey to the page, searching for the words. Pride would be one. Fear, another. He felt vulnerable, far more so than he had on his countless missions and operations; yet, he also felt emboldened, as if nature had appointed him an important task, one he knew he couldn't fail. But reality pushed in harder, and the tireless cogs in his mind began spinning once more, churning out horrid scenario one after the other.

“No. No, this can't be right, Dr. Harvey. I can't be...” he cradled his jaw in his hand while the other fussed the slip of paper.

“I thought it unlikely as well, but I ran the test three times. You are _definitely_ pregnant. Against all odds, it looks like.” She began flipping though his file. “Your mother--”

“Julie,” Phil interjected, clasping his hands together. He wished that she were here.

“Julie, of course.” She pulled out a file. “She underwent hormone therapy, correct?” she stated more than asked, eyes scanning the page.

He leaned back in his chair, recalling his father's account. “Yes. She and dad waited longer to have children; her theater career was taking off and he traveled a lot on business. She had trouble conceiving.” He sighed. “She miscarried twice before she became pregnant with me.”

“And then you came around.”

“It was a long process for both of them.” Phil said. “All the way to the end, she was quick to remind everyone of that.”

He remembered one Thanksgiving with his grandparents on his father's side. He must have been in elementary school then. They had just finished saying grace, and his father was carving the turkey and serving it to his aunt and uncle.

“So well behaved,” his grandmother had said of Phil. “He is a gift, truly.” Phil remembered the click of his mother's fork on their finery and the obstinate shift in her seat.

“He's not a gift,” Julie had said, bordering on curt. “Gifts are easy—they land in your lap. I worked hard for him, Amelia. Please don't refer to him like that.”

Phil rubbed his abdomen. The effects of the morning sickness—something else to contend with, that he even had morning sickness—still had him on edge. “The Coulsons were never a fertile bunch. I am already intimately familiar with the havoc my genes can cause, Dr. I was as much of a fluke as anything else.”

She folded his file and set it beside him. “What are your plans? How do you want to proceed?”

Continents over, that terror cell herded groups of children and omegas, forcing them to march across rocky terrain and across national lines. Nothing was simple, nothing safe. How soon before he would receive a dreaded call or cold email.

  


“Julie is ill.”

“Julie has been in an accident.”

“Julie has gone missing.”

“Your daughter is hurting and afraid and it is completely beyond your power to help her.”

  


  


“How much time do I have?” Phil asked Dr. Harvey. “If this...Clint and I decide not to move forward with this, how likely is it that I can conceive again?”

“This may be your last opportunity, Phil. I can't sugarcoat that. Your mother was younger than you are when she began hormone therapy, and soon you won't be having heats period. Meaning—”

“No eggs released. No pregnancy,” Phil said, sadly connecting the dots.

His arms wandered over his stomach, hands gripping elbows, sheltering, protecting, fearing.

“I understand.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha pushed the tray toward Phil. “You need to eat.”

He slowly reached for an apple and took a bite. He skimmed the rest of the briefing that afternoon, nearly retching when he read more about the hostages. Clint was already home at the apartment. He had stopped by Phil's office to see what the doctor had to say about his nausea, but Phil rushed off, saying he was late for another meeting.

“When are you going to tell him?” Natasha asked, clasping her hands and leaning close over the aluminum table. It was late in the evening, too late for a hot dinner in SHIELD's cafeteria. They had it to themselves, save for a few stragglers and their canteens.

“I don't know,” Phil said. The shock had worn off, but in its place grew something more difficult to tangle with: uncertainty. “It will have to be soon. Dr. Harvey said it's only a matter of time before my body starts signaling to him that I'm pregnant.” He considered the apple. “He'll know, that much is certain.”

“You'll need to tell him before then,” Natasha posited. “He has already started acting weird around you.”

“Really?”

Natasha became quiet and pensive. She sliced up an orange and planted half of the wedges on Phil's plate.

“You saw the look on his face while he was showing me the photos. The only other thing I've ever seen him so exited about was you. It's a real possibility that he may already suspect something. He always had a keener sense of smell than your run-of-the-mill Alpha.”

“His suppressants, though,” Phil started, “he had been on them for so long, maybe he'll miss some of the nuances.”

“And? He was an Alpha before he was recruited, Phil. Surely he's encountered an expecting omega before.” She pointed her fork at him. “You want more time.”

“Can you blame me?”

He pushed his tray away and crossed his arms over his chest. The knowledge was already consuming him. He felt exposed, open and vulnerable; he felt the same being out on an open field with no cover. All afternoon he vacillated from eagerness and anxiety, watching both play out in the mirror of his office's restroom, where he spent more time huddled around the base of the toilet.

“Time for what?”

“To process this.” Phil shifted in his seat again. “I might not get another chance to be alone with this again after I tell Clint. I need to know how I feel first.”

Natasha's hand crept over the table and grasped his. It was the only comforting gesture in her repertoire. Phil savored it for what it was; no promises she couldn't keep, no cliched words and no words.

Had his mother been there, she would have told Clint for him, like it or not. She would be so proud of him, and that is why the twinge of guilt burned that much more.

He didn't know if he could go through with it.

“Phil?” Natasha said.

He hummed back.

“Whatever you decide, just know that I won't think any less of you. Honest.”

“You mean whatever Clint and I decide.”

She shook her head. “I know Clint wants what's best for you, but his being an Alpha will complicate things.”

“Clint wouldn't do that,” Phil said. “He wouldn't force me to keep it if I didn't want to.”

“Not him. The Alpha inside. It will influence this, Phil.”

“That's preposterous. Where does the line end, then? Where does the Alpha start and Clint begin? It's not like he's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You have heats, Phil. You know what it's like for your mind to want one thing and your body something else entirely. Hormones are a bitch.”

Phil paused and downed the rest of his coffee. “You have a point.”

Natasha frowned slightly and refilled his mug. “Dr. Harvey should be able to help.” She snorted. “Apart from Clint, she's the only other one who knows your body so well.”

“Very funny,” Phil said.

They spent the rest of dinner in contemplative silence, then Natasha was called off to the armory. She gave his hand a squeeze. “I'll have my phone.”

Phil began the trek back to their apartment. He decided not to take the highway and instead drove up the Manhattan streets, lingering at the intersections, hoping and doubting.

At a stop on the near side to their apartment, Phil spotted a building he had little reason to contemplate before. In a clean font above the glass doors glowed the words “OmegaCare.” His hands gripped the wheel.

They had been in the news a lot recently. Another handful of locations down south had been shut down, rowdy crowds of staunch traditionalists picketing the sidewalks in front of their treatment centers. They made him sick and, now, disgusted and afraid; to not even have a choice is something Phil was loathe to contemplate.

Even in New York the occasional picketers and protestors, imitating their stronger, irrational siblings down south, rallied outside treatment facilities or anything that they perceived as providing birth control.

He lingered at the light when it turned green.

Pastor Glenn Claremont frequently gave his thanks for such demonstrations; he and his family were known picketers and had built a small empire on his televangelism and charm. He began what he called a “human rights” group out west, The Family Conservation Front. It spread slow, but laid roots deep.

Some time ago, Phil had watched an interview with him. He looked normal, near non-descript, in his gray suit and blue tie, but something lingered in his gaze. He believed in his cause and Phil knew that's what scared him most.

“Abortion is an abomination; God has already made our decisions for us. The proof is obvious.” Glenn said, straightening his tie. “We omegas have a _need_ to reproduce and that desire is so strongly expressed in our biology that, for days or even a week at a time, our hearts and minds and bodies can contemplate nothing else, is beholden to nothing else but that desire. It's plain and simple, cut and dry. We were designed that way, and it's not up to me or you or anyone else to interfere with His design.”

He sat in the garage for a moment, gathering his thoughts.Eventually, Phil dragged his feet on the way through the lobby, past Beth, another SHIELD agent posing as a doorman. She waved.

Before he could unlock the door, Clint was there, apron on and covered in splotches of flour.

“Didn't know when you'd be home. Sorry. I'm kinda a mess.”

Phil, smiling, pecked him on the cheek and pushed past him, not caring if the flour dusted his navy suit. Inside, he spotted the mess in the kitchen: mixing bowls scattered across the countertop, bits of asparagus and onion littering the ground in front of the counter, where their carving knife rested on the bamboo cutting board.

Clint wiped his hands and wrapped them over Phil's right hand. “How are you feeling? You hungry?” He nodded toward the mess. “I have a pizza goin' in the oven if you feel like eating. I mean, if you feel like eating—you might not cause you've been ralphing all morning, I mean.”

“Oh Clint, you didn't have to.”

Clint waved him off and grabbed a couple plates, beaming. “Take off your tie, get outta that suit. Get comfortable.” Phil started toward their bedroom and Clint called over his shoulder. “And take your socks off too, cause this pie is about to blow them off.”

“Aye aye,” Phil said.

He shut the door slowly behind him. Normally they didn't take such precautions, but he wanted a second to take in his body.

He brushed the flour off of his suit and carefully hung his jacket and trousers. Next he folded his shirt and placed it near the rest of the dry-cleaning and there he stood, in nothing but his boxer-briefs, inspecting himself in the closet mirror. He looked no different than he had this morning, but everything about his outlook and posturing had shifted.

“Your body's chemistry is going to change. And both of you will feel it,” Dr. Harvey had cautioned him. “Mood swings, strange cravings, everything you've learned about in health class.” He didn't take it so seriously back then. He wished he had paid more attention.

He turned to the side, running his hands over his stomach. It was still much too soon for him to be showing but he convinced himself that he saw the beginning of a bump. He ran his hand across the hems of his jackets and toed the heels of his brogues and oxfords, which were all lined up neatly on the floor.

He imagined picking out a smart suit for Julie—for a job interview or a college interview—one with a pencil skirt or trousers, whatever one she wanted. Phil already knew all the best tailors in New York, and he would bring her to them, Phil in a suit with the sides let out and she a pair in torn up jeans stolen from Clint's drawer. She would turn, reflected endlessly in the mirrors and smile sheepishly, Clint's smile. Phil's heart would inflate with pride as the tailor readied his measuring tape.

And then he would show her pictures of her namesake, decked out in smart pinstripes or fine lace—whatever the stage called for that season. Clint would recite the family stories that Phil shared with him: the time her grandmother Julie performed the second leg of an important show with a broken ankle and how his father, Robert, and he watched from the sidelines, ready to jump to her aid if she should fall.

“That's where it comes from,” Clint would interject, “Your stubbornness, Julie, comes from a long and dignified line.”

Their bedroom door inched open. “Are you okay?” Clint asked through the crack. “Do you need more of those nausea pills?”

Phil choked back the waver in his throat. “No, no. Just getting dressed...it's been a long day. Just decompressing.” Phil pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of sweats.

The door crept open wider and Clint slowly approached, studying him. Phil inserted himself into his arms and they rocked slowly back and forth in the dark as Clint's homemade pizza cooled on the table. He mouthed at the skin between his collarbone and jaw and Phil shivered.

“You smell good,” Clint said.

Phil breathed in his Alpha. “Your pizza smells better.” His stomach rumbled between them. “I'm starving.”

“Yeah? I have the table all set,” Clint said, drawing himself back and rubbing Phil's shoulder with a stray thumb. Phil hooked his hand around Clint's waist. He couldn't stop looking in the mirror.

“It's getting cold,” Clint muttered.

 

* * *

 

They lay tangled under the throw blanket, Clint lazily absorbing the nature documentary and Phil's mind running at a mile a minute, running through every conceivable milestone and injury of his own childhood and projecting it onto the idea of Julie.

Clint had kept his plate full over dinner—even insisted on cleaning everything up as well. His touches were constant, an arm sliding over Phil's shoulders as he guided another square slice into his mouth. He was nurturing and overly protective; he had moved his stool from the opposite side of their gray kitchen table next to Phil's, making sure that he was never out of reach for the rest of the evening. They didn't talk about the rest of Phil's day and Clint had insisted that his wasn't anything special.

“I'm just glad you're eating,” Clint had said. “'S all that matters to me.”

He lazily began flipping through the channels and lingered on the news.

“And now, moving on to International News—”

“Change it,” Phil said, sitting up. “Please, change it.”

“Wait, I wanna see what's happening.”

“Clint—”

The reporter explained new developments to the story reported earlier that morning, the same one Phil was briefed upon earlier. Three more rural schools were abruptly evacuated following reports of armed men riding through the country side in military grade vehicles.

“About two dozen omega students, ages seven to sixteen, were taken—”

Phil snatched the remote from Clint. He switched the set off and cast the remote onto the coffee table as he stormed off to the bedroom. Clint was close behind.

“Are you okay? Feeling sick again? What's wrong?”

He pushed into the dark bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. His stomach was roiling, mind feverish, retreading each worse possibility and outcome. Where he would normally calculate an alternative call, his mind drew a blank.

“Phil?” Clint's shadow slid into the doorway.

He wanted to hide, wanted to escape his dark thoughts. He kept them at bay the best he could, but, collapsing on the bed. He sat in the dark, contemplating the abyss. Clint stood silhouetted in the doorway, bewildered at the spike of fear in his scent.

He approached the bed slowly, hands ready to assuage, hanging in the air in front of him. When he was at the foot of it, he lowered himself slowly.

“Phil...”

Phil wiped his nose. “It's just been a really hard day,” he said, shoulders slumped. “I'm sorry—I...”

Clint hushed him and eased Phil's legs onto the bed. Phil collapsed onto his side, fingertips, constantly wiping his eyes. Clint went in close, hands stroking Phil's shoulders and side, doing everything he could to comfort his omega.

“Was it the news?”

Phil nodded slowly, rooting his nose into the bend of Clint's elbow.

“Aw shit. I'm sorry, Phil. I shoulda turned it off.”

“No, not. It's not your fault,” Phil said between soft heaves. “I'm just—those kids.”

Clint brought him close, stripping off his shirt, letting his scent penetrate his storm cloud.

“Have you been thinkin' about this all day?”

“It was a briefing. SHIELD's getting ready to intervene.” Phil inhaled deeply through his nose. “The things that are happening, Clint. I can't even think straight, I'm so scared. And angry,” Phil said, choking up, grip tightening.

“Come on. No it's not,” Clint rubbed circles into his back, letting his skin rub against Phil's. “SHIELD's gonna be on that, Phil. Hell, you were at the briefing, you know we're going. We'll help them.”

“It's not enough,” Phil returned weakly. “They've already inflicted so much pain.”

Clint was easing him onto the pillows and moving behind Phil and wrapping his arms around his middle.

“We're the best squad in the whole damn world,” Clint said into Phil's right ear. “We'll get our best people on it, and save those kids and help everyone. You'll see.”

“Clint—” Clint squeezed tighter.

“Can you imagine what Nat's gonna do when she gets her hands on those kidnappers? She'll swoop in and kick ass and you and me will be right behind her, and I'll have my new bow and they'll surrender just like that.”

“Clint—” Clint hushed him, gnawing along root of his neck. The news was on the tip of his tongue.

“And we'll get everyone back home to their families, safe and sound. You'll see.” Phil pulled away from his grip and flipped on the light switch.

“What's wrong?”

Phil stared at him and his big blue-gray eyes. He still had the corner of the sheets bundled in his hands and he dropped it on the ground. Clint sat up on his elbows, studying him. His nostrils flared.

“Clint...I'm pregnant.”

Something shifted. Clint's hands shot out and held Phil's cheeks. His palms were hot against his cheeks, his eyes searching and analyzing.

“What?” Clint managed, eyes still wide and disbelieving. “But you said that you couldn't—that your ma...Phil?”

Phil's hand wandered over Clint's knuckles and he leaned into his grasp. He felt a slight tremor. Phil only had a vague idea of what to expect from his Alpha: the shock, the possessiveness, the instinctive urge to rejoice.

“I know what I said before...I'm just as shocked as you are,” Phil whispered, cheeks burning and heart racing. He squirmed beneath Clint's inspection.

Clint's hand moved to his shoulders and he leaned in close, sniffing and scenting, nostrils flaring and gaze becoming more and more animal. He pushed Phil onto his back and breathed him in deep.

“That's what it was,” Clint's teeth dragged across Phil's neck. “What it _is_.”

“Clint?”

“I knew something was off. You were so happy and sick and something new,” Clint's hands pawed at Phil's chest. “And your smell. So good. I can't get enough,” Clint said, a rough growl punctuating his fevered praise. “Phil. My Phil.”

Phil battled the tide of his own reciprocating urges, but his blood was boiling. He wanted to yelp and weep and open himself up. Clint was still on top of him, pupils wide and possessive. His hands wandered to Phil's chest then his stomach, where the rubbed soft circles into his skin.

“You don't have to be afraid,” Clint said. “You're beautiful. So beautiful,” he said, leaning in and kissing Phil's cheek.

Phil watched the pink trail Clint's touch left on his skin. He felt his fears and the shadow of his paranoia slowly dissolve. He squinted his eyes shut. No, too much remained to be said; he couldn't let this spiral out of control yet, not until they have had the chance to talk it over, to think like sane humans and not at the behest of their primal urges.

His nerves were on fire; he freed his hands and pushed at Clint's chest and he whined and nipped at the fleshy part of his forearm.

“No,” Phil whispered. “Clint we have to—let's go to the kitchen.” Clint persisted in his litany of soft words and the desire to touch and taste. “Clint.”

Phil pinched Clint's neck and he pulled away with a low whine. The lamp illuminated his skin which was damp with sweat. His scent filled the room to suffocating levels. His brow furrowed and he scratched at his scalp. The fabric at his knees was crumpled beneath his grip.

“Phil?” he asked. His breathing slowed and he blinked rapidly. “God. I don't know what's coming over me.”

“It's an Alpha response. Just another inconvenient outpouring of hormones,” Phil said. Clint winced at the words.

He stood up. Clint was still on the bed, sweating and jittering. Phil made his way to the kitchen, not bothering to switch off the light. Clint was right on his heels.

Phil sat at their kitchen table and Clint near him. “Just breathe, Clint.”

His eyes were still wide and lost, hopeful. “Phil?”

“Come on, breathe with me,” Phil urged. He was on the edge himself. All he wanted to do was to leap into Clint's arms and babble about the little possibility taking root in his womb. He kept his hands on Clint's shoulders as they breathed. Clint's nostrils still flared, but his pupils were beginning to contract and the haggard jitter leaving his muscles.

When he was at last with his senses, Clint folded his hands. “I'm sorry, Phil. I wasn't expecting that—any of it.”

Phil's heart already missed the sweet, unfettered ache of the news. “I know. It's scary,” he guarded his stomach with his forearm. “I'm scared too.”

Clint didn't break eye contact. “So it's true then. You really are pregnant.” Clint's eyes focused. “When did it happen?”

“Dr. Harvey hasn't done an ultrasound. She says it can't be further along than the first trimester,” Phil said. He racked his memory. Ever since his heats have become milder and inconsistent, he had stopped paying attention; until earlier that day, he believed there was no risk of pregnancy and had accepted that he wouldn't have children of his own. He had overcome the hump of acceptance and reached a point where he was fully content with Clint's patience and affection when he went through his smaller, intense bouts of need.

Now, however, he was ascending the hill again, and he found hope and fear both thriving on the slopes. Clint was still sliding toward him, but Phil pushed him away. This would be difficult enough to discuss and forage through without the interference.

“The Fourth of July,” Clint murmured. “That's when I...when I knotted you last, when you needed me.” He reached out to stroke Phil's jaw and he sighed.

“Clint, no,” Phil said. Clint winced and drew back. He ran his hands through his sandy hair.

“It's hard. I just want to wrap you up—take care of you.”

“I know, I know. But we need to talk about this without...without _us_ getting in the way, you know?”

Clint breathed through his nose. Phil heard a low purr in Clint's throat. “Okay, then talk. Just get it out.”

Phil swallowed and wiped his eyes. Just thinking of forming the words made his instincts flare up. He wrapped his arms around his lower abdomen, but he tried his hardest to remain composed.

“We need to think about this, Clint.”

“About the kid?” Clint asked. Phil winced.

“Yes...about whether...whether I should keep it.”

Clint cast his eyes to the corner. He bit his lip and fussed with the drawstring of his sweatpants. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came of it. Phil's hands closed over Clint's and he brought the knuckles to his lips.

“We don't need to talk about this now,” Phil sighed. “In fact, we _shouldn't_ talk about this now, not with all of our systems all in uproar like this.”

Clint leaned in close. He leaned his forehead against Phil's. “Then when can we? How? We need to—I need to talk this through. It's all so hard to believe. I'm just all happy and sad and scared and excited and...and—”

Phil hushed him. “I know, baby. I know. I'm in the same ship here.” Already a battle plan was percolating. Clint looked to him, waiting for a command or order, something to shape the situation at hand.

“I'm going to go see Dr. Harvey again tomorrow. She will have something for your— _our_ situation. Just so we can talk this out with clear heads.”

Clint whined low in response, but agreed. They had nowhere to go with all of their urges and instincts and it took another couple hours to calm down enough to sleep. Phil suggested that one of them take the couch—for the sake of not tainting any future discussion—but Clint held onto him tight and shook his head.

“Can I have this, Phil? Just tonight? Before we talk about it, before we make any decisions either way, just let me be a big, stupid Alpha?”

Phil's heart swelled at his touch and relented. He wanted it too; he lead Clint by the hand to their bed. Both stripped down and lay beneath the covers. Clint kicked off the blankets and they became entangled in their favorite position: Phil as the little spoon and Clint's mouth and tongue on the nape of his neck. Their legs weaved themselves together, each of them desperate to glean as much contact as possible.

Clint's hands wandered bravely from Phil's ribcage to above his waist. Phil whimpered as Clint caressed him and breathed him in. And as their nerves finally calmed, Phil let himself fall under the veil of belief: that his desire was sustainable, that Julie could thrive and flourish in a world gone mad.

 

* * *

 

They woke early the next morning, before sunrise. Keeping his word, Clint didn't press the issue, though the way he paid his attentions to Phil was enough to let him know what Clint had on his mind. Clint pulled on his SHIELD-issue track pants and sneakers.

“Where are you going?” Phil called to him from the kitchen.

“I feel like ants are crawling under my skin,” Clint said, lacing his sneakers. “I have to get all this energy out. Gonna run to HQ today.” Phil didn't comment or argue, even though the sky was threatening rain.

Phil kissed him when he rose to his feet. “What's on your plate today?”

Clint huffed. “You know what's on my plate today.”

Phil chuckled humorlessly. “Apart from...from _this,_ ” Phil said, hands folding above his abdomen.

“More prototype testing. They want me to take one out in the field as soon as possible. And more waiting around to see if something else important is going to blow up and if there'll be another mess for Hawkeye to clean up.” He shrugged his bag over his shoulder and his hand was on the knob when Phil stopped him.

“I'll call you as soon as I speak with Dr. Harvey, okay? If you have the time, perhaps you should go over the literature the med bay gave you.”

Clint cocked an eyebrow. “What literature?”

“About Alpha health?” Phil demanded. Clint shrugged. “You mean they didn't give you any resources after you went off of your Alpha suppressants?” Phil groaned and Clint embraced him.

“It's gonna be okay, all right? We just have to take this a step at a time,” Clint said. Phil suspected it was more for Clint's comfort rather than his own. “Just grab some pamphlets for me when you're at the ward, 'kay?”

Phil nodded and leaned in when Clint did. “Love you. Talk to you later.”

Clint was off down the hall, nearly sprinting. He finished his coffee and retrieved the car from the building's garage. He let the engine stall.

If only his mother were here to tell him what to expect. She would tell him the ins and outs of the months to come—should they come at all. However, the tales of her own pregnancy were thin and lacked detail. He reasoned that she didn't want him to feel like a burden, even though his father had informed him of the difficult road she had to walk in order to conceive: weekly visits to the hospital, syringes filled with simulated hormones, false starts and late nights of hoping and praying.

As he turned onto the highway, he wondered if his father's Alpha experience was as deeply felt as Clint's. He has read many stories and accounts over the years. Alphas have, historically, been the authority on pup-rearing and family planning. Even now, many coerce or even force their partners to keep the child, propelled by societal bias entrenched in their instincts and history.

He signaled and pulled off the highway, already he could see the tall spire of HQ. He knew Clint was already struggling with the history and the instinctive impulse to procreate. He was going through the security checkpoints when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Laura; it was short.

 

“Thinking of you two. XO Laura, Lila and Cooper.”

 

“Clint...” he sighed. He knew he shouldn't blame Clint. However, the ever-expanding circle of those who knew put more pressure on Phil, and would make the second round of news, should he abort it, all the more awkward to deliver. Phil didn't exactly forbid him from telling anyone else, however, and Natasha was already involved. He let it go.

And speaking of, he saw her camped out beside his office, reading a manual as casually as she could manage. Phil walked past her and picked up the phone. He scheduled another appointment for later that day.

Natasha seated herself on the black leather sofa listening to the slight tremor that punctuated his sentences. He breathed a sigh of relief near the end of the call, when he scribbled a date in his calendar, and she let him linger in the quiet for a moment before addressing him directly.

“How did he take it?” she asked.

Phil folded his hands. “I honestly don't know. I mean, there was excitement and the optimism, but I don't know how much of that was Clint. How much was just _him_ , I don't know.

Natasha's eyes were considering, lacking their usual shaprness. She didn't often fall into that state of almost leisurely contemplation; it left her too open, she had said to him long ago. Clint was never big on being an Alpha, she thought and she had heard enough stories about his father and the reach of his shadow.

“He was so fuckin' controlling. Thought it was his duty as an Alpha,” Clint had said to her after a round of sparring. She held up the padded mitt and held her ground as he pummeled them with gauze-wrapped fists. He backed off, gathering himself.

“It was like freakin' propaganda or something. And I guess that's where he got it.” Another hard blow and deep grunt. “It doesn't do anybody any good when history or church or the government or who-the-fuck says think they know what's good for everybody else.”

He unleashed three more punches and wiped his forehead and unwrapped his knuckles. “He was so mad when Barney had turned out to be an omega.”

And that had given her some pause, knowing that her whole life had hinged upon the words of superiority passed down from one Alpha to another for the better part of the last millenium. Had she not felt so marginalized, so useless, she wouldn't have carved out this life for herself, wouldn't have attained the freedom from the heats and scenting and scrutiny. It was strange how things turn out.

She was almost glad to hear when Phil was considering the neutering procedure. She had taken it as a sign of changing times; but knowing Clint's thoughts about Alphas, to hear him succumbing to the hormones and chemical imbalances, gave her pause.

“It's can't ever be simple, can it?” she quietly posited.

“You can say that again,” Phil said. He began flipping through another itinerary and calendar, constructing the days to come. Two groups of debriefings today for him to process, more news about the tragic state of things and the inklings of hope that SHIELD was could do anything to alter it.

“Has anything been decided yet?”

“Only the date of conception,” Phil said wistfully. “We couldn't talk about anything else. Our hormones were here and there. I don't want anything like that affecting our decision.”

“So Dr. Harvey will be giving you one of the downers then?” she asked. That made the most sense, she decided. With some of the stronger Alpha responses to the news, there were options; medication and salves to dampen the Alpha and omega responses to pregnancy to grant some precious lucidity. “Good plan.”

Phil tightened his tie and sat at his desk.

“If you could have the ideal outcome from this, what would it be?”

Phil clasped his hands together and ceased his ministrations. Last night had been such a whirlwind, he actually had not thought on it to the extent he would have liked to.

“I honestly don't know,” Phil said. “I just want...I want Clint to be happy with me or, rather, with whatever we decide. I haven't had a chance to give it much thought.”

He put another pot of coffee on.

Natasha was at the edge of his desk, watching him pretend today was just another day.

“Would you be able to leave all of this, Phil? SHIELD would miss you out on the field. You and Clint have been something of a dream team around here.”

He knew that that question was just as relevant as the others. If he were a boring accountant in SHIELD's administrative department, having a child would be no problem. He knew plenty of people in HR and accounting who had full families. The active duty agents were a different story entirely; there was still so much for SHIELD to accomplish. For Phil to accomplish.

“We would have to. If we had an accident, if things went downhill, the thought of leaving her behind...” he bit his lip.

“It would be a loss either way; SHIELD would be short two key assetsor Clint and I would be missing out on our only chance for a _normal_ life.”

“It's still a viable road, Phil. One I've taken permanently. One you would've taken as well if it weren't for the Second Opportunities Act, funnily enough. No one will side-eye you here, you know that right?”

“The issue is a little bigger than that, Natasha.”

“It could be possible you're making it that way,” Natasha suggested. She was careful not to accuse. She checked her watch and began to take her leave. “Besides, you're a total liar.”

Phil stood up as she reached for the knob. “What about?”

“You've already given it a lot of thought,” she said simply, disappearing behind the door.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Harvey nodded patiently, scrawling out notes as Phil told her of Clint's reaction to the news: the sweat, the possessiveness and primordial joy. She hummed thoughtfully.

“I wish you'd stop doing that,” Phil said.

“What?”

“First you hum and then you say—”

“It's not common,” Dr. Harvey interrupted, before Phil interrupted her with a weary groan. “It's not common, Phil, but it's perfectly normal when it occurs. Usually it happens later in the pregnancy, though.”

Phil squirmed merely thinking of Clint's eyes last night, how happy he felt to be under their deep scrutiny. “His response.”

“A male-male bond has a couple hurdles to overcome when it comes to pregnancies,” she handed him a few glossy pamphlets, which Phil tucked away handily. “Female omegas have larger stores at the ready that aid in the maternal instinct. It's a remnant of the pre-historic betas we are all descended from.”

“But male omegas lack those extra stores. They're there, but their bodies require a bit of,” she waved her hand in the air, searching for the phrase.

“A jumpstart? Like a stalling car?”

“Yes. So Clint finds out you're pregnant—either verbally and from some olfactory indicator—and his body's racing. Again, it's a hurdle, so he's getting a rush of it too, so you respond in kind so you develop the behaviors that contribute to a healthy pregnancy: carefulness about food, wariness of other Alphas, and eventually whelping in preparation for child birth.”

Immediately Phil remembered a small color polaroid in a small album in his father's study, taken right before he and his mother packed up to leave for the hospital. It was a picture of his mother, hair tied back in a messy bun and full with child, and their bed, arranged carefully with blankets and pillows, boxing her in a protective circle. She looked right at home.

“I see.”

She studied him. “I take it you weren't able to reach a decision last night.”

“We were a bit distracted,” Phil said through his teeth. His stomach twisted.

“Understandably,” she said. She pulled out her pad and began scrawling again. “Luckily, we have a couple solutions for that.” She handed him the prescription for two medications. “These will dampen his hormone production. It won't last long—a few days at most—but it will give both of you some calm to talk about how you want to proceed.”

Phil examined the names. He had read about these; to The Family Conservation Front, pills like these were just as bad as abortions themselves.

“Just another delusion born of the arrogance of man,” Glenn Claremont said, “to delay the inevitable—to even deny His plan—is a sin.” Phil folded the prescription and tucked it carefully away.

“Now, I must warn you. The prescription is legal, but for this type of medication, there's a small wait.”

“How small?”

“Three days,” she said, crossing her arms.

“You're serious?” Phil asked. He scoffed. “It's as if they're all conspiring to delay things long enough for omegas to be too far along to get a safe termination procedure!”

“I'd believe it,” Dr. Harvey said. “But I'm sorry, I have to follow protocol.”

“Is there anything Clint and I could do in the meantime?”

“There are suggestions in the purple pamphlet. Sleeping separately would be at the top of my list. Prevents the exchange of those nesting urges. It's not perfect, but if you don't want your body getting overly attached to the idea of a little pup wandering about, it's the best I can offer, at least until your prescription is ready.”

He sorted through the handful of papers. He felt his stomach gurgle. “Oh god, not again,” Phil said, pinching his brow.

Before he could stand, the nausea had grown to an overwhelming degree, just as suddenly as this sudden turn in his life had taken hold of each of his thoughts. Each of those thoughts circled his mind as his sick circled the metallic bowl of Dr. Harvey's toilet.

 

* * *

 

They left headquarters separately late that evening.

Throughout the day Clint peeked into Phil's office, bringing him food and coffee, wandering close to his omega before Phil would gently deny him. Phil frowned, feeling a tug at his heart.

“Dr. Harvey's suggestion,” Phil said. “Until we figure this out,” he added quickly afterward, too late to prevent the stung expression from exploding on Clint's face as he turned on his heels and marched out of his office.

When Phil returned to their apartment, he found dinner laid out again. Suddenly the apartment felt small. It was perfect for the two of them with its sleek design and muted grays. In fact, Phil was thinking about purchasing the place at some point—or at least something like it. But uncertainty hung over everything from the sharp corners to the suede—suede, for God's sake!—love seat to the pall brewing in Clint's eyes. Phil tugged at his tie. He spotted the sink full of dirty dishes and a cookbook next to them.

“I was passing by this little bookstore,” Clint said. “Thought I'd try something out.”

Clint leaned over and smelled the fresh pan of lasagna. Phil walked over and kissed his cheek. “It's lovely Clint,” he said.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was sinking into Clint's chest and wrapping his arms around his waist. He breathed deep and suddenly he felt two firm palms pressed against his chest. Clint snapped his fingers, drawing Phil out of his prenatal haze.

He said nothing, smiled a little, but said nothing. He pulled out Phil's chair and Phil began serving heaping portions on both plates.

Dinner was quiet save for the click of silverware until the landline phone began ringing. Clint looked to Phil. Clint got up and answered.

“Hi!” Phil heard Laura shriek through the receiver. Clint recoiled, holding the receiver further from his ear. “Hi! Hi! Oh, I know I said this already, but congratulations, both of you.” Her excitement was accompanied by little voices in the background talking about Uncle Phil. “Can you put Phil on? Is he there?”

Clint covered the mouthpiece and turned to Phil, eyes expectant. Phil withheld a sigh and took the receiver.

“Hello, Laura,” he said as brightly as he could manage.

“Oh my darling, Phil,” she said. “Clint told me the news.” Phil gave Clint a pointed glance. He groaned and returned to the table to continue picking at his long-cold plate. “How are you feeling?”

“A little scared, to be honest,” Phil said. “Just...uncertain. It's a lot to take in.”

“I can imagine. How far along are you?”

“About a month. Maybe more. We don't really know, haven't had the chance to get an ultrasound. We don't know a lot of things, come to think of it.”

Laura paused. “I see.” He heard her move away from her line to tell Cooper to quiet down please. “Well, I guess just see how things play out, Phil. If...if you need any book recommendations or good websites or blogs— _any_ kind that can help you out with this—you can email me or call, okay?”

Phil's heart skipped a beat. “Thank you, Laura.” They both fell quiet. Phil knew Clint's plate was empty from the scrape of his fork. Maybe he wanted him to think that he wasn't listening, or that he was content there, at their small kitchen table next to the sleek marble countertops and the chrome legs that matched the finish of their fridge and cabinets and the slate gray carpeting that spans from corner to corner that was so soft and expensive and easily stained and the sharp edges and corners of the glass coffee table that Phil just had to have andthe boring impracticality of it all.

“I had some news as well, Phil.”

Phil smiled, welcoming the interruption. “What is it?”

“Alexis is coming back on time for once! I had her send me a picture of her plane ticket for proof. August, not September.”

“That's great, Laura! I can't wait to meet her.”

“Should—should I put Clint back on?” Phil said, biting back something bitter. “I'm sure he'd love to hear that.”

“Yes. And Cooper had an epiphany about bows and arrows today and he wanted to share it with his Uncle Clint.” She held her line away again. “Yes, Cooper, soon!”

“Okay. Goodbye Laura. I think I'll take you up on those readings. Couldn't hurt?”

He could almost see her smiling on the other end of the call. “Right. Couldn't hurt to be prepared. You guys are always prepared anyway.”

Phil said his goodbye and handed the phone back to Clint, who took it into the living room. He left the door open as a sign of trust, but Phil knew he shouldn't listen in. He began clearing their places and putting away the lasagna.

“He's...We've been working there for so long, Laura,” he heard Clint murmur in the living room. “I don't know, he's been really stressed out lately.”

Half of the pan remained; he cut the remaining slab into neat squares and began fitting them into the tupperware.

“No. No, not paranoid. Just cautious. Okay, maybe way-too-over-cautious.” He heard Clint recline in the luxe suede. “You don't get as far up the ladder as he has without being able to explore everything, Laura.”

He reached into the cabinet for another tub, but couldn't find another. There was still a piece left out in the cold, all alone in the greasy pan.

“If we had another mouth,” Phil mused quietly to himself. He pulled out the foil and wrapped it clumsily, placing it on top of the full tupperware containers on the counter. He sat back down.

“No. No. We were going to talk about it. Yeah, both of us.” He paused for a long time. “Some medication, I don't know. No, not the same junk I used to be on. I hope, anyway.”

Phil stared at the little piece wrapped in tinfoil, was still musing on it until he heard the click of the receiver next to him. Clint leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and lips pursed.

“Cooper learned about bows today at the library,” he offered. Phil hummed. “He told me they've been around for a really, really, really long time, in fact.”

“It was one of the biggest military advances in history,” Phil said, not moving from his seat, eyes not moving from the little bundle of tinfoil. Clint crossed in front of him and put the leftovers in the fridge. He turned and leaned against the counter, keeping his distance. Phil felt cold, but knew it was for the best.

“I got those pamphlets from the doctor,” Phil said, changing the subject before it could be opened.

Clint scratched his head and followed Phil to the living room for a preliminary look.

Phil changed into sweats and Clint finished the last of the tidying up before either of them grew the nerve to sit down and look at the things.

For the most part, it was all fairly standard, detailing male-male bonds with sterile illustrations and calendars and charts. A good chunk of it, though, was new to Clint. Phil wasn't surprised.

Clint never attended a health class proper and Barney flunked out of high school, but not for lack of trying, rather, lack of freedom. The demands of their overbearing father (who notably, refused to get a job) and eventually the circus life left little time for studies, and less to talk to Clint about the facts of life. He didn't put Barney in school until the truancy patrol came knocking.

“What? He's an omega, he doesn't need school,” he said.

“So..I'm giving you a jump start? Like a car?” Clint asked, going over the words again, brow furrowing.

Phil snorted. “That's exactly what I said.”

“And only male-male pairings?”

“Male omegas have a smaller gland for that particular function. Makes sense that it needs a little pick-me-up..”

“That's stupid.”

Phil chuckled. “Why is that?”

“I don't know.” Clint turned to him on the couch, setting the pamphlet aside. “You never need any jump starting. You're just...you're just you. You get shit done.”

“Well, this is a bit different,” Phil said. He felt heat tingle from the base of his spine all the way to the crown of his skull. “Planning out an itinerary of an operation is one thing. I'm not used to this.”

“You've always taken care of me just fine. And Nat too, when she was just starting out at SHIELD.” He crept closer on the couch. “It comes naturally to you, Phil.”

Suddenly Phil's sweatshirt felt about a size too small and rough against his skin. His fingertips brushed the back of Clint's hand and a low whine escaped unbidden from his throat. His eyes met Clint and again they were filled with that animal want.

It was Clint who slept on the couch that night.

 

* * *

 

Clint held his breath. He eyed the target and let loose three arrows in quick succession, each landing in the center of the rubber target with a dull thud. One of the arrows split in two curling strips. A crack widened in the center of the target and it fell away in meaty chunks. Natasha whistled. He took a deep breath.

“You'll have to teach the newbies how to do that,” she said, examining her nails in the harsh light of the firing range. The next three lanes were examining his handiwork.

Clint plunked down next to her as the aides quickly swept away the remains of the target. “I do like teaching,” he murmured as he stripped off his glove. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and lost himself in another fantasy—of paper targets pinned to trees and tiny arrows swerving and piercing the rim of the page followed by a proud grin.

“You must be nervous about tonight,” Natasha said quietly. “I passed by Phil's office. He must have already gone to the med-ward.”

“Yeah.”

“Any idea on what you plan on saying?”

Clint sighed and scratched his head. “I don't know. It's been a rough few days. I don't know if some pills are gonna fix everything. Things have been tense.”

“Can't be worse than forging forward on instinct alone. They can get in the way.” She looked far down the lane.

“I guess.”

Another target emerged from the range's trap door. Clint sprang up and replenished his quiver. Natasha followed. His eyes never left the target. Two more arrows thudded in the center.

“I don't even know if me and my Alpha-thoughts or whatever can be neatly divided anyway. Or Phil and his hangups.”

“What hangups would those be?” Natasha said, crossing her arms.

“He doesn't wanna be selfish.” Clint adjusted and sank another arrow in. “You know him, he confuses being happy with being complacent. Sometimes forgets how to just let things go.”

“So he's automatically supposed to be happy about being pregnant? Just because he's an omega?” she asked, tilting her head.

Clint bit his lip. “No. I didn't mean like that.” He leaned forward and gripped the dividing rail, watching the others ready their bows. “I just want him to know that it's okay to be happy too. That being happy about this is even an option. I don't know, he thinks too much. Always finds the worst in things.”

Natasha chuckled. “That's kind of his job.”

Clint almost smiled back. “People can quit jobs. Phil can't quit _that_.” He paused. “I hope that waiting too long hasn't made this all worse.” He tugged at the strap on his chest.

“It doesn't hurt to be cautious. It's a big decision,” she said, resting against the railing. “It probably won't come around again.”

Clint's grip on the railing tightened, but he choked down the visceral, Alpha-driven response.

“It might be for the better,” Natasha mused. “That means you'll only have to make the decision once.”

“Like you did?” Clint said.

Natasha smirked. “Yeah.”

Clint smiled softly back. He checked his phone. “He's got them. He has another briefing and then we're gonna get lunch.”

“I hope he keeps it down this time. Is he still getting morning sickness?”

“Every day,” Clint groaned.

 

* * *

 

Maria Hill enhanced the map. Four red marks appeared, dotting the southern border of Switzerland.

“Four abductions took place in the highlighted regions. All four claimed to have been in connection with the organization known as 'The Preservers.' Two involved homicide of the abductee's legal guardians and were captured near the border at 0200 hours local time.”

“What do the local law enforcement believe?” Phil asked, assessing his notes.

“One of the alleged gunmen had written manifestos which were linked to the extremist group. He had intentions on leaving the country with the omega in tow to go join their efforts in the Mediterranean.” Maria scanned her notes. “All four assailants had conspired to bomb a local health care facility and have a history of communication with one another.”

“What kind of facility?” Phil asked, throat tightening and dreading the answer.

“An omega health care provider. In accordance with the beliefs of the extremist group, they openly condemned any and all birth-control and what they characterize as 'unnatural reproductive interference.'”

“God,” Phil sighed. The agents around him took fastidious notes but his pen was still for perhaps the first time.

“Notably, that exact phrase was also used during an anti-abortion rally in Missouri two weeks ago.” Another map appeared on the screen. “The demonstration was held by the right-wing political group who call themselves Family Conservation Front.” Fifteen other red marks littered the map, extending into Kansas and Illinois. “Phil?”

“They have recently come under the scrutiny of the FBI and other like organizations as a suspected terror and hate group. Harassment and hate speech for omegas who have sought treatment is employed on site and on social media,” Phil said to the group.

“Another factor was the alleged arson of an OmegaCare facility in Arkansas.”

“'Alleged?'” Phil asked, hiding his fists beneath the table.

“The local Fire Marshall is still investigating,” Maria said. “The former suspect had open, official connections with the Family Conservation Front and frequently posted to their social media outlets. That, and he called the doctors who used to work there, 'murderous whores.' Lovely.”

“What is our course of action?” Phil asked.

“We are coordinating efforts with the FBI to monitor their communications. Any link between them and the Preservers will be investigated by the FBI and then SHIELD, pending the severity of the situation.”

She displayed three screencaps of Twitter messages.

“A representative known to be working with the FCF have messaged several journalists and reporters. All of these were taken down soon after they posted and these images are the only known reproductions of their threats.” The tweets themselves were base and barbaric.

One name stuck out like a sore thumb and Phil's heart stopped. “Alexis?”

“You've must have read about it, Phil. She and a few other reporters have been out in Europe covering the recent blanket-legalizations of reproductive intervention and widening omega healthcare initiatives in Switzerland and Austria. Their example is gathering a lot of clout. The FCF, naturally, wants to stem the tide.”

Phil bristled in his seat. Maria continued the rest of her presentation, making sure to make eye contact. She was concerned as well. She knew about Laura and Alexis, the small bit of family that Clint could claim as his own.

The rest of the news was grim; another kidnapping in Oklahoma that possessed a distressing resemblance to the kidnappings in Switzerland and the slew of abominable acts taking place across northern Africa and, increasingly, parts of the Mediterranean. He forced himself to keep calm and bate his breathing, but doing so occupied every ounce of his effort. This work was too important to walk away from, he grimly pondered. It would be irresponsible to put his happiness above it.

Following the briefing's conclusion, Maria remained behind to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I wouldn't be too concerned,” she offered gently.

“Why is that?”

“We have you on the team,” she replied.

 

* * *

 

“It says here that you have to take your dose first,” Clint said. “Then I take mine twelve hours later.”

They were seated in their living room. Clint's knees knocked against Phil's. Phil examined his own brown pill bottle and at last he felt a modicum of relief. Without the force of Clint's hormones, he would no longer have to accept this child against his will, at face value. Even if the rest of the world was going up in flames, at least here, packed neatly in this little bottle, he could assert this much control.

They waited until after dinner.

“At least now I can sleep in the bed,” Clint grumbled, stripping off his shirt and shorts and climbing into bed.

“It's been lonely,” Phil said. “It almost reminded me of my bachelor years.” He shuddered.

Clint smiled from the mattress, but it faded quickly as Phil downed the pill and his glass of water and they settled like cement in his stomach. He leaned up on his elbows, taking Phil in.

An hour later, Phil's mind buzzed with nothing in particular. He was able to lie next to Clint, but even then he wasn't registering as strongly as he usually did. No doubt that was the work of the hormone blockers.

Still, it was good to feel Clint's skin and the beat of his heart. He looked up at his Alpha and could feel him watching, even in the dark. Phil was oddly pliant and relaxed and Clint took notice. He rubbed small circles into his shoulder, sending shivers down his side.

“Feeling better?” Clint whispered. Phil nodded and nuzzled into his side. It was a relief not to have the undue pressure of Clint's commandeering hormones; at last he felt like something was being done about the situation, that soon a conclusion to his confusion and loss of words would arrive.

They were quiet for a long time. He heard Clint's heart jump and start.

“I'm sorry,” Clint said into the dark.

“What for?”

He sat up on his elbows, looming over Phil. “That you had to go through all this trouble on account of me. Just so we could have a sane conversation.”

“It's not your fault,” Phil said, reaching up and stroking the scratchy stubble on his chin. “It's just...it's just our biology.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “If everything about our bodies were up to us, then my hair wouldn't be this thin,” he murmured.

Clint laughed softly and scratched behind Phil's ears. He heard Clint's lips part. For a moment, he felt his senses begin to churn and moil, but nothing came of it; no impulses throbbed. The small part of his heart that desperately wanted to flourish and pour out a new soul flickered, but did not illuminate.

Still, he heard the low growl in Clint's chest. He leaned forward and nipped at Phil's neck, causing his cock to bounce gently in reply. He reached down, guiding his hand down Clint's thigh until his fingertips brushed his pubic hair.

They both paused. Perhaps it wasn't the right time, but Phil waited until Clint grinned quietly. He just wanted to get his mind off of it.

He groaned as Phil took hold, rubbing his rough palm slowly up and down his length. Phil tucked himself into Clint's side, slowly dappling his neck and jaw and mouth with soft kisses. Clint turned to him, fully erect and leaking onto the sheets.

Phil pulled back slightly, maintaining eye contact as he continued rubbing up and down, aided by the precum. Clint watched him with intense, scrutinizing eyes, but nothing.

When his breaths began to grow shallow, Phil dipped underneath the covers, taking the head of Clint's cock in his mouth, sucking and licking with quiet desperation.

“Phil,” Clint groaned. He took in his cock and felt it spurt down his throat.

He pulled back, leaning on one elbow as the moment turned to soft embers. Clint stroked his chest. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Phil whispered back.

 

* * *

 

He woke to an empty bed and a damp pillow. He sat up; his heart was in his throat. Sleep came fitfully, despite the peculiar calm that the hormone blockers pulled over his senses and the murky impression of his nightmares still gripped him. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, finding Clint's note.

 

“Got called in. Potential situation, can't message you about it. Keep an eye on your phone. Love you.”

 

His lungs felt spent and hollowed out and his throat hoarse. He stretched, taking a deep breath and wiping the last tears from his eyes. He stripped the pillowcase and draped his pillow over the armchair in the corner to dry.

He stumbled into the bathroom and switched on the light, which stung his sensitive eyes. He took a deep breath, blew his nose and examined his reflection. His face was mottled and red and eyes bloodshot. He splashed freezing water on his face and grabbed the bottle of eyedrops, moving through the rest of his routine.

His stomach gurgled and he walked down hall. He stopped half way in front of the second bedroom. His hand wandered to the knob. The door swung open, the hall light casting his shadow long and dark on the stale carpet.

He switched on the light. The room was furnished sparely. In the corner was tucked a second desk and some supplies and opposite of it was a cardboard box with an inflatable mattress. Clint's things were scattered throughout the room: a couple of wooden quivers, two pairs of boots in need of serious polishing, old bedding and the unused boxes of plates and silverware from his old apartment.

Something tugged at Phil's heart, staring out into the empty room. He shook his head and blew his nose again. It was sorely unused, even Phil barely noticed that it was there half the time. Occasionally Natasha used it when she was in town and didn't feel like staying in SHIELD's housing, but mostly the room only gathered dust and the junk they had been accumulating. It might as well have been empty. He knew that he and Clint could fill it with purpose.

Trying to dismiss the lingering doubt and guilt, he focused on his breakfast. He scratched his head. He was totally drained.

He reached inside the fridge, grabbing the tinfoil wrapped piece of lasagna. He ate it cold. Something felt decided. He had the same winded feeling of having climbed a steep hill sapping at his energy. He began to get dressed when his phone buzzed, ripping him from reverie.

He snatched it up.

“Clint?” he croaked.

“Good you're awake,” Clint said. He sounded ragged and concerned. “We have a situation. Hill can tell you more when you arrive.”

He said nothing more, Phil heard the commotion of mobilization in the background. Phil cleared his throat.

“Got it,” he said. He tightened his tie and laced up his oxfords and hurried out the door.

 

* * *

 

Maria gave him the rundown as well as a concerned once-over as they jogged to the smaller briefing room adjacent next to the armaments and garages.

“At 0300 hours, three unmarked packages were delivered to three major news stations in Manhattan. Inside of each was a cryptic typed letter and a dvd.”

Phil grabbed it from Maria as they wound down the corridor. His eyes scanned the a copy of the letter rapidly. It contained instructions and references to a dvd that was included in the package. The video was to be played at 11:34 a.m. following what was described as a message to all those who would harm the innocent and disrupt the natural order. No signature.

“How'd they get in?” he asked, page wrinkling beneath his fingers.

“Forensics is still examining the packages and the contents. Security footage did not turn up anything of value. They appeared in the mail rooms clandestinely overnight. Someone with private or personal connections to these facilities must have been involved for the messages to get that far into the systems.”

“Why 11:34? Why so specific?”

They reached the briefing chamber. Maria bit her lip and handed him an itinerary. It was from the John F. Kennedy airport.

“You said that Alexis was abroad doing a story on reproductive health? The plane carrying her and her colleagues is set to land today for a human right's conference. Flight 3212.”

“At 11:34 a.m.,” Phil finished grimly. His phone started buzzing, but this time it wasn't from Clint, but from another branch of SHIELD. “What is it, Sitwell?”

“Agent Coulson,” he started. “The situation has been elevated to Red, Fury has just ordered immediate deployment; local authorities have found what they believe to be two explosive devices on the runway near the communications towers.”

“How long ago?”

“Fifteen minutes. SWAT teams are already on the scene. They're having trouble handling the devices?”

“Have they contacted the pilots of the incoming flights? They cannot land at JFK.”

“No, they can't reach them! SWAT briefed us; someone has taken control of the radio towers.”

“Goddammit,” Phil said through gritted teeth.

“Get your men moving,” Sitwell said before hanging up.

Phil's heart froze, yet his pulse was pounding. He set aside every concern, every fear and focused solely on the matter at hand. He took the folder from Hill and scanned its contents in a minute flat; security footage showed three figures in black hurrying toward the locations. He read the manifesto again. His stomach squirmed.

“Got it, we are briefing now.” Phil pushed through the double-doors. All eyes were on him, including a pair of piercing blue-gray ones from the far corner. Natasha was by him. He sensed his Alpha, if only distantly. He was pins and needles, tinged with rage.

Phil swept through the briefing, ordering and assigning units, flipping through diagrams of the airport and the runway, showing them where the first two explosives were located and the size and builds of the people who planted them.

“The airport has been evacuated of all but the most essential personnel. Squads from the NYPD and SWAT teams are currently posted on the premises.” Coulson's eyes narrowed. “This was an inside job. We have their hateful manifesto, we have footage of them leaving the airport and we have their motivation. It's a cut and dry operation, let's move. Be on your guard, there is a lot at stake if we lose that plane.” He met Clint's determined stare.

“Who's our lead?”

Maria stepped forward but Phil stayed her with a stern gaze. “I will be handling this operation.”

Far back in the corner, Clint grit his teeth, nearly baring them. The rest of the regiment mobilized moving out of the room. Phil still stood across the wave of people and Clint pushed through them, eyes piercing and jaw clenched. Over his shoulder saw Natasha watch the proceedings.

The last of the forces were loading in the trucks in the nearby garage. Maria stood between Phil and Clint, brow furrowed.

“Barton we need to move,” she said. Clint gazed at Phil over her shoulder. He held his ground.

“Phil and I need to talk. It'll take two seconds.” She cast Phil a wary look.

“You're not leading this, Phil,” Clint said. Phil saw it then, the bristles over his shoulders, the wide stance and the clenched fists. He was holding the den.

“Is that an order?” Phil said, cocking an eyebrow and leaning back. He maintained eye-contact.

Clint backed down slightly, but none of the fire left his gaze.

“I can lead this op, Coulson. It's cut and dry, we route them, retake the towers and—”

“I know you're more than capable, Maria, but I'm taking this one. It's personal,” Phil said resolutely.

Clint crossed to him and took his shoulders in his grasp. He attempted a smile. “That plane isn't the only one with valuable cargo, Phil.”

Phil paused. Already he had inured himself to this life of protection and service. They both knew the sacrifices that had to be made. Clint bit his lip. He ducked his head to the side. His hands dug into Phil's shoulders and through the haze he felt his Alpha's distress.

“Get the first squads out, Maria,” Phil said. “I'll handle the rest.” She nodded and joined the rest of the crew, leaving Clint and Phil in the deserted briefing room. Phil didn't let the silence drag on for too long. He gently shrugged off Clint's hands and drew in close.

“You can't...” Clint couldn't find the words. His mind was moiled and hazy. He heard Phil cry out in the night, attempted to get him to calm down, but Phil was already embroiled in nightmare, quietly weeping into his pillow at unseeable distress. All he could do was rub his shoulders and back in his sleep, do everything an Alpha could do to comfort him. It had little effect.

“I am not going to sit around here while Alexis' life is in danger, Clint. This is family we're talking about. We have to protect her. I can't stand by and do nothing.”

Clint's nostrils flared and he pushed Phil away. Phil was resolute, certain after so many days spent mired in confusion.

“You've already decided, haven't you?” Clint said, anger edging in on his voice.

“Clint this isn't the time.”

“You said we were gonna talk about it, Phil. You and me,” Clint said, pointing back and forth between them. “We were gonna talk about it. You promised.”

“We _are_ going to talk about it.”

“When? After the deed is done?” Phil went quiet. “Were you going to keep this a secret all day? Just like how Fury, how SHIELD kept Laura and Lila and Cooper a secret from me?”

“We had other concerns to busy ourselves with, Barton. I hated the secrecy as much as you did, but I know he had his reasons.”

“And there you go again! You keep going on about our contracts and our jobs, as if that's all we are!”

“Clint,” Phil said, voice wavering. He shook his head. “We can't. This, all of this,” Phil started gesturing to the advanced tablets, the metallic display behind him, and the hologram models of the airport which still buzzed in mid-air. “We made a promise Clint, to protect people. Our lives aren't ours anymore.”

“The hell they aren't!” Clint shot back, crossing his arms. Phil could almost feel the heat radiate from his body and the vibrations of Clint's heartbeat. “You made a promise too, Phil. That we would sit down and talk it over. Remember?”

“Are you trying to force me into this, Clint? What about what I need?” Phil said.

Clint slammed an open palm onto the nearby desk, sending the tablet clattering to the ground. “All of this has been about what you need, Phil. I never once said that I was ever going to force you to have it. You know what my dead-beat dad put me and Barney through. What a fuckin' ugly thing to say.”

He breathed in and out through his nostrils, resting the weight of his shoulders and mind on the little desk. Phil was still, stricken by the outburst.

“This is gonna to affect both of us, Phil. Mentally and physically.” Clint took a step closer. “We were gonna talk about this before, not after.”

“It doesn't have to go this way, Clint,” Phil said, running his hands through his hair. “We are not animals. This plan is...it makes more sense.”

“But we're still _human_ , Phil. And sometimes you forget that and try to fit us into these logical little boxes. We don't work that way, you know that.”

He continued. “I slept on the couch all those nights so we wouldn't jump the gun, so that _I_ wouldn't make you attached to the idea before you were ready. We waited for the pills and I agreed to take more freakin' SHIELD meds,” his hand dug through his pocket and withdrew a tiny brown bottle, “just so we can talk about this the way you needed us to. I need this too. Maybe not as much, but I do.”

“We'll talk about it, but right now we have to get out of here. We don't have any time to lose,” Phil said, raising his voice.

“Good. Good. Then we're both on the same page.” He screwed off the lid of the pill bottle and looked to Phil. “How long has it been since you've had your dose?”

Phil grimaced and checked his watch. “About 12 hours.”

“Good.” Clint took his dose and shoved the pill back into his pocket and marched toward the doors. He turned back to Phil. “We _are_ going to talk and whatever happens...happens. Now are you coming or not?” He turned on his heels and marched away.

Phil was shocked. His heart jumped and he stepped forward. “What about earlier? I thought you didn't want me in the field.”

Clint chuckled bitterly. “Like I can do anything to stop you. Now are we saving Alexis or not?” He held out his hand. He still sensed Clint's anger, or his Alpha's anger; now it was harder to parse the two cleanly. Maybe it was impossible after all, but he knew Clint realized that there was truth to his words. Despite that, the two of them were weapons and they were necessary; whatever came of their discussion would either cement them in their roles or alter the fundamental essence of their lives.

Both options were equally frightening. And equally viable.

Phil crossed over and took his hand. Clint squeezed tight.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The black armored vehicles sped through the on-ramp, sliding between parked trucks and sedans on either side of the road. Their vehicles screeched to a halt in front of the terminals, and the two squads spread through the security terminals and to the gates. A massive crowd of bystanders and airport personnel, guarded by the NYPD and a SWAT team, stood huddled and panicked near the garages.Flashing lights and orange cones surrounded them. From main terminal doors, he could hear the stricken clamor of the would-be travelers.

Quickly they exited the vehicles. Phil stripped off his jacket and slipped into a light-weight bulletproof vest. Clint checked his retractable bow and quiver while Natasha armed her stun darts and side arms.

They were met by more officers and SWAT members. Phil flashed his badge and they began the briefing, showing him examples of the explosives uncovered so far.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the situation was the same, but the relative quiet had everyone on edge. They NYPD held their posts, hands on their guns while the SWAT teams disseminated throughout the terminals and adjacent rooms and chambers, moving cautiously at a slow pace. The other shoe was due to drop, Phil could sense it.

“Fancy toys,” Natasha commented, taking the smooth, polished steel in hand. “It's worse than we thought.”

“These devices are tricky,” said a SWAT bomb specialist. “Nothing we can't deactivate on our own, but we still don't know how many units could exist or, for the time being, how long they have been planted. We are working on it.” He dangled one deconstructed unit in front of Phil.

“How fast are we talking?” Phil asked, examining the deactivated unit in Natasha's hands.

“It's some kind of experimental model,” the specialist said. “It was sending out a counter-signal, making traditional methods of tracking impossible. For now, we are relying solely on visuals to detect the bombs until our engineers can crack the signal.”

“Thank you, specialist. Be on guard. We will be in touch,” Phil advised. The officer nodded and let their squadron pass through the entrance hall. Flags dangled uselessly on either side and the security machines were jammed with plastic cartons of shoes, keys, wallets and cell-phones. Inefficiency at its best, no wonder the bombs slipped by unnoticed.

Phil ordered SHIELD's tech crew to assess the equipment while they did a preliminary sweep. Phil turned to the squad. “Okay, folks, our main priorities are seeking out and dismantling any remaining devices and forging a path to the radio towers. With those towers still out of commission, all of today's scheduled flights will fly straight into the wolf's den. We can't let that happen.” Phil got the thumbs up from the specialists and signaled for the rest to follow.

“Barton, get a vantage point on the runway ASAP,” Phil said over his shoulder as they slipped through the metal detectors.

“Yessir,” Clint said, hauling himself up on top of the x-ray scanner. He then leapt up the tiled walls up to a nearby air vent, which blew cool air in his face. Phil caught one last breath of Clint's scent before he disappeared into the vent.

Clint flipped a switch and the screen strapped to his wrist began scanning the ducts and soon was plotting a map to the external air feeds. He began crawling through the vents, listening and watching through the metal slats that passed beneath him. In the back of his mind, he felt Phil's presence through the metal.

“Romanov, go quiet and search the maintenance tunnels,” Phil said, readying his glock pistol.

“On it,” she said. She jogged to a nearby entrance and picked the lock, creeping inside the darkened hall.

“Team Gamma, sweep,” Phil commanded through his mic, “report to me and Hill and copy SWAT on anything relating to the devices.” Three spaced beeps sounded through the headset, signaling their abeyance. They rushed forward, crept around corners with rifles raised and gave the sign. “All clear.”

Steadily they made their way through the terminals. SWAT bomb squads were stationed left and right, checking trash cans, convenience stands, magazine racks, anything that might conceal a deadly weapon.

Natasha sent a series of electronic clicks through the headset, morse code. “All clear,” she messaged. “Directive?”

“Keep advancing. Disable any hostiles for further questioning.” Natasha clicked an affirmative.

“Agent Hill.”

“Sir?” She turned toward him.

“Guide team Gamma to the runway garages, _capture_ any hostiles and report in. I will lead team Delta through to the C gates.”

“Right away. Let's move people!” She and five others headed through to a staff entrance, which was guarded by two more officers and airport security. Phil continued moving forward with the remaining specialists.

Up above, Clint jammed an arrow into the fan, stopping it in its tracks. He slipped through, balancing on the jammed blades. He reached up to the main grate. It wouldn't budge. Quickly he rummaged through his belt, grabbing a small blast-charge. He stuck it to the seam between the grate and the steel corridor and jumped down. He flipped the switch as he slid past the corridor. Sparks ignited, melting the lock. He pulled himself back up and tumbled to his back, standing on his head and thrusting upwards with his boots. The grate popped loose and flipped again, propelling himself upwards onto the roof.

Phil's ears perked as they reached the C aisle.

“Phil, get down!” Clint barked into his headset.

Phil dived to the floor and the rest of his squad followed. Just as his elbows hit the linoleum, a hail of gunfire burst through the terminal windows, sending shards of glass flying into the corridor. The bullets punctured the walls above their heads. Phil remained flat on his stomach. He urged them forward as they reached their target gate.

Down below, Natasha crept, keeping to the shadows. She heard a soft click of a rifle and froze in place. Three pairs of boots began marching down the hallway and she counted down. As they rounded the corner. Three men in airport uniforms jumped in shock. She seized the opportunity, leaping forward and arcing out into a flying kick. As the heel of her boot plowed into the middle man's chest, she crossed her arms over her chest and flicked her right wrist. Two near-invisible wires flowed out the wrists of her cat suit and embedded themselves into the walls. The middle man was winded and wheezing on the floor. She used the halt in her momentum to shift her body weight. Swiftly she tugged on the wires and her body revolved in the air. Her metal shin guards cracked the remaining two at the crown of their spinal columns and they collapsed stunned to the ground.

She quickly silenced and restrained the armed men and continued down the hall. “Three bogeys down in the south east corridor. Proceeding to the electric maintenance corridor,” she clicked into her headset. Phil barely heard the message as the men below maintained fire.

“Barton, get these bogeys off us,” he barked.

“Already on it,” Clint replied. He rolled over to the far edge of the building. He whipped out his bow and it expanded to full length, wire taut. He readied a flash-bang arrow, keeping low. He took a mere moment to aim and in a split second the arrow was embedded in the asphalt at their feet, bursting in a blinding light and deafening crack.

“Get moving!” Phil barked to his followers. They surged ahead to the gate. One of their bomb specialists spotted a metallic canister near the gate's entrance, deftly hidden in the rubber tubing. She quickly got to work while the second specialist routed out another canister in the adjacent gate.

Clint readied his knockout gas tip and took aim and moments later, the first line of defense collapsed onto the runway. A split second later, he saw a glimmer of red light shine through the dissipating gas.

Phil rounded the corner and a bullet whizzed by, grazing the fleshy part of his upper arm.

Clint darted over to the northern edge of the building. He spotted the sniper through his scope and withdrew another arrow.

Phil relayed his info to Maria.

“We're disarming the explosives near the gate. They mean to kill,” Phil grunted, tearing off a strip of his shirt and wrapping it around the trickling wound.

“You think?” she replied.

“Now's not the time. I need a status update.”

“We are making our way to the garages. Two of the armsmen confirmed it, they are hiding out in the garages with the luggage-handling carts. I will inform you when we reach them.”

Phil watched as the two specialists tracked down the disabling signals of the devices with their scanners. He turned and peeked through his binoculars and watched as another group of armsmen poured out of the garage entrance on the south side. “What direction are you headed?”

“North by northeast.”

“Divert to the full east. More units are guarding the main garage doors,” Phil ordered.

“10-4,” Maria said.

Phil watched as more men collapsed to their knees. “Good work, Barton.”

“They don't have any cover. They know if they stay holed up, they'll get gassed,” Clint grunted.

“Be careful, they might get desperate if they know they're trapped,” Phil said.

“Always am,” Clint said, letting loose another arrow. He watched it arc high in the sky and pierce another sniper who was in the middle of readying her rifle right through her firing arm.

“Keep an ear out,” Phil said to both Natasha and Clint. “Once Hill and team Gamma make it to the garage and capture the rest of the assailants, we'll need to make a beeline toward the radio towers. We are running out of time before 3212 gets in our airspace.”

Natasha clicked affirmative as she restrained two more gunmen. She twisted her heel into one of their inner thighs and he coughed up the location of their main hideout.

“Thank you. Now, was that so hard?” She covered their mouths and began sprinting down the maintenance halls, red hair trailing behind her.

“More gunmen, Phil!” Clint said.

Phil ducked into the boarding platform as another barrage of covering fire interrupted his specialists. He checked the time. Only a half an hour remained. “Where the hell are all of these guys coming from?” he shouted over the rattle of gunfire.

“We've reached the garages,” Maria said. Another specialist began work on the security door, which was shut and locked tight. “30 second out and we'll be in.”

Clint reached back for another flash-bang arrow and found the pocket empty. “Shit. Sir?”

“Go ahead, Barton.”

“Permission to use deadly force.”

“Granted,” Phil grunted. Searing pain shot up and down his grazed arm. It cut deeper than he thought.

Clint switched pockets and began sending volleys of arrows into key gunmen, sending them collapsing into the hot asphalt. At last, the barrage lightened and the disarmers got back to work just as Natasha reached the nervous system of that wing's ventilation. She attached a charge to the main door and found cover. Seconds later the charge ignited, sending the iron doors flying into the unsuspecting targets. Through the smoke, she fired her wires. Several other men were caught in the confusion. She flicked her left wrist and an electric current darted through the extended lines.

“I'm running out of arrows!” Clint barked.

“Keep it up, team Gamma's almost through,” Phil yelled. They were almost through with this line of gates, but it wasn't enough. Luckily, the C wing was closest to the radio towers and they'd have a shot at re-initializing communications and issuing an emergency signal.

Maria kicked down the door. She tossed in a smoke grenade and readied her visor. Team Gamma did the same and soon they were head-to-head with a room full of gunmen. Some wore airport uniforms, but most were garbed in tactical gear, though she was able to note their middling quality as she and another squadmate rolled behind a stack of crates. She peaked around the corner and they laid covering fire as the rest moved in to destabilize.

Downstairs, Natasha, assailants and terrorists littering her feet, tumbled toward the last man and grabbed him by the collar. She slipped him a pill and he loosened, crumbling to her feet. She pressed a button and began recording. “You are going to tell me everything you know,” she ordered, her gaze piercing his brown, beleaguered eyes.

Phil could see the tower. “You two continue working here,” Phil said, checking his watch again. Twenty minutes. There wasn't enough time. “Barton, cover me.”

“What? What are you doing, Phil?” Clint said, scoping out the chaos in the garage. His quiver was empty.

Phil moved toward the shattered glass windows and scanned the ground. Clear for now. In the distance smoke dispersed itself into the sky above the garage and the crackle of gunfire was near constant.

“They seem to be concentrated near the garage. I have to turn on the emergency. There's no time.”

“Phil, that's crazy!” Clint shouted.

“No choice,” Phil said. “We have to clear as many gates as possible, I have to leave the bomb squad here. SWAT will back us up, we got all the bombs in C-wing, they can make camp here.” He switched stations, giving the SWAT team the all-clear for the C wing and he grunted in affirmative.

His gut twitched and lurched as he tumbled onto the tarmac. He started off in a sprint toward the towers. Behind him, he heard the SWAT commander move in on another garage, making their way toward Maria and team Gamma.

Clint was at the edge of the roof. It was too far to jump, but he could not bear to be out of eyesight of his omega. He heard steel splintering behind him and two men burst out of the access stairwell. He tumbled right, avoiding two shotgun blasts. He holstered the bow and withdrew his dagger, letting his ankle peak from the right corner. He heard the shotgun cock and in a blink of an eye he withdrew his leg and sprinted from the right. The blade caught one in the side, but they did not relent. Soon he was surrounded by two assailants, whipping back and forth with his blade, just barely missing their vulnerable spots as he dodged the but of a shotgun and a sizzling stun prod.

Phil's lungs and eyes burned as he approached the tower; he heard Clint on the roof far behind grunting and panting and throbbing in his ears, but he could not turn back. At the base of the tower he tried the door. Locked. He attached a SHIELD decoder to the keypad and in ten seconds it blinked green. Once inside, he sprinted up the stairwell, shoes clanging against the steel.

The tower was abandoned. Attached to the main council was a sinister looking device, blinking red and scrambling all the screens and monitors. He rushed over to the nearest keyboard and began working. When red screens flashed, he withdrew his last descrambler and jammed it into the usb. The screens dimmed and soon lines and lines of code filtered through the screens, working their way through the device's security protocols.

He heard the door slam behind him and the cock of a gun. He ducked and rolled behind another monitor and readied his glock. He fired three times and he heard his unknown assailant hide behind the filing cabinets.

“You're too late,” Phil called out, keeping an eye on the descrambler's progress.

“Believe you me,” a woman's voice called out, “everything is just getting started.” Phil scented the air. An omega. She fired three more times and sparks rained down above his head. He rejoined and she abandoned the crunched up cabinets and hid behind the metal door, gun peaking from behind the corner.

On the roof, Clint was still tangling with the last assailant. She was good, winding and writhing, always just out of reach.

“It's always the first wave that is most stubborn,” the omega said, firing twice more. “Once we overcome that hurdle, the rest will follow.”

“Follow what, exactly? All I've seen so far is a blatant disregard for human life, so you'll have to remind me.” The descrambler was almost there.

Across the tarmac, the smoke was finally settling in the garage. Hill ordered the SWAT team to restrain the gunmen. They darted to and fro, winding their wrists zip-ties behind their backs. Just as the last were tied up, she heard a loud crack above her in the rafters. She spotted two men.

“You've heard it, have you not? The calling our bodies make?” the omega woman said.

“You mean heats? Yeah, I've been around the block a few times,” Phil said. He rose up and aimed and the woman did the same. They met each other's gazes. She was garbed in black, with dark hair and bright eyes. She was lucid and earnest. That, more than anything, frightened Phil.

“It's divine, isn't it?” she said. “That we have such a gift to give to the world. Yet some would throw that gift away, wash the blood down the drain and never think twice about it. And yet you accuse us of having no regard for life.”

“That's not your choice to make. Have as many pups as you want, but you can't force everyone else to follow your example,” Phil said, eyes still trained on hers.

“So arrogant,” she spat. “So like an American, never seeing beyond your own nose.” She chuckled humorlessly. “You can still be useful yet. We have eyes and ears in more places than you think. Our cause knows no borders and speaks every language. We won't allow your doctrine of 'choice' dirty the minds of those who would follow the calling; that is our divine function. We will preserve it and you will be made an example to the whole world.”

Her eyes narrowed and in them he could see the descrambler blink green. Phil flipped a switch, sending the tower's emergency broadcast signal. She fired three times.

Two bullets bounced off the monitors, sending sparks flying. The third slipped under his vest as he tumbled backwards. He saw the blood rush from his torso, staining his blue shirt. He fired back and heard her yelp as the bullets ripped through her armor.

Clint tore out his bloodied dagger from the second assailant, chest heaving to catch his breath.

“Gotta get more sparring time in,” he gasped.

His system jolted. He paused. His nostrils flared. He smelled blood. Phil's blood. His pupils dilated and his nerves sizzled and burned. “Phil!” he growled as he rushed to the edge of the roof. In the top windows he saw Phil's silhouette, hunched over, hand over his stomach. He could practically hear his labored breath and the groan of his body. “Phil!”

Phil collapsed to the floor, hand over his stomach, vision blurring and nerves seething. His eyes focused on the woman across from him. Blood trickled from her mouth and he crawled over to her, flicking off his headpiece's recorder.

He saw her draw one last ragged breath through her nose and she smiled softly. “So...you're expecting...congratulations,” she murmured. Her hand shot out with the last ounces of her strength, wielding a small remote. She flipped the switch and the light blinked red. Phil's ears rang and the building lurched.

Three plumes of flame burst at the base of the tower, sending black smoke billowing into the air. Clint gripped the sides of the building and hurdled over, landing thirty feet below on his hands and knees. “Phil! Phil!” Clint roared as the tower began to crumble. He heard the hiss and grind of steel girders as the bent and toppled.

Phil coughed and hacked inside, spinning through the air; papers and desks littered the air, flying every direction, swirling around him so he couldn't tell which way was up. And far off, through the chaos and flaming debris he heard Clint's cry.

Clint dove out of the way as the tower's rim crashed beside him. Black smoke choked the air and flames burned through the cement and metal. Clint couldn't smell for the acrid thickness of the destruction. One final collapse and the tower was down, its roots sticking torn and helpless into the sky. 

Harsh static bellowed in Natasha's headset. She froze and re-assessed. She tightened the cords on her captive's wrists and ankles and sprinted from the maintenance shaft, following a route to the outside. She burst from an emergency exit in time to see the tower settle in destruction and flame. Far off she heard Clint's cries of contrition.

Clint leapt through fire and flame. Eyes wide and wild, ripping through debris with his bare hands, calling, calling.

 

* * *

 

His gurney rattled through the sterile corridor. The commotion threatened to consume him whole. Blinding lights streaked above him. Shooting pains and constant tremors shot through his body. He felt a hand on his forearm, holding on for dear life.

“You're gonna be okay, Phil. Jesus, you're gonna be okay,” the voice said as the gurney took a left turn, jarring every sense.

The lines of his face blurred and throbbed. Phil made an attempt to reach out, but his arm wouldn't obey. Through the murk of pain and confusion he made out a pair of blue-gray eyes, on the verge of breaking down.

He felt Clint's hot, callused palm stroke his forehead as he rushed to keep up with the gurney. “You're safe. You're safe, Phil.”

Phil flinched and dull pain spread in his lower abdomen. Slowly he reached up and weakly wrapped his fingers around Clint's wrist trying to keep his world from toppling over. “Clint?” he said weakly. “Where?—I don't—”

They gurney approached a set of double doors. One paramedic was speaking into his radio, the words were a blur to Clint. His entire focus was on Phil: the burns on his arms and legs, the blood trickling from his mouth, the quiet whimpering he barely heard over the chaotic din.

“We need to get him to surgery,” one of the paramedics said. The gurney finally slowed in front of the operating theater and another familiar face floated into Phil's periphery. Her eyes were hard and red hair tied into a messy bun. Soot was smeared across her face and arms.

“Come on,” she said, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. “You can't follow him in there, Clint. You have injuries of your own.”

Clint didn't look away and his grip tightened on the railings. He breathed deeply in and out of his nose and he shuddered. “No. I'm staying with him!” he growled.

“You aren't properly sanitized,” one of the paramedics said. “You will do him more harm than good.”

“I'm staying with him,” Clint repeated, eyes brimming with tears. “Just fuckin' rinse me off.” His hand caressed Phil's cheek. “I'm not leaving you, baby.”

“Clint—”

Without warning Clint bristled and shook. Natasha took a step back, intent on calming Clint. The paramedics backed away as well. One lowered her mouth to the radio strapped to her shoulder. “We have a Code Green. Alpha is failing to comply with directives. Get a unit to the east ward.”

“Barton,” Natasha said, raising her voice, keeping steady, “the longer you delay him, the longer he's in pain. Is that what you want?”

Clint ran his hands through his hair rapidly, trying to gather his reason. He breathed in and out, in and out. He turned to Phil and his mouth twisted in worry and instinct. “Babe.” Natasha crept up behind him and restrained him. He jumped and struggled. The doors burst open and Phil disappeared inside. Two personnel garbed in sanitary smocks and masks wheeled Phil into the room.

Clint flared up, struggling against Natasha's hold, exhausted and scorched and heart bleeding. “Phil!”

His gurney disappeared into the room. Clint balked and shouted, no longer coherent. He seethed against the small window, face a torrent of fear and anger. Phil's eyes slowly began to shut. The last thing his failing consciousness showed him was his Alpha's silhouette struggling and shaking against the glass. And then he was suddenly gone.

 

* * *

 

The leather restraints were at last limp. His eyes were inflamed and red, his throat scratchy and hoarse. His hospital gown was dappled with tears and blood. He was all cried out, yet still he sensed Phil on the peripheries; his lingering scent was the only thing keeping Clint grounded, even if the scent was of blood. He shifted and twitched when the door opened.

Dr. Harvey peaked from behind the door, cautious. Clint's heart began to race and were he not so drained, he would have renewed his struggle against the restraints. She slowly shut the door behind her and deliberately took her seat out of arm's reach. She adjusted her glasses.

“They called me from SHIELD's med ward; I got here as soon as I could. Coulson has been stabilized,” she said, reading the report from her clipboard, mulling over the more difficult details. “He's currently resting with the help of painkillers.”

Clint withheld his sigh of relief. He knew that look in her eye. The same look when his ma told him they couldn't be there anymore—the hesitation to share the graver news.

 

“He has two fractured ribs and a broken arm. Fortunately, no lung punctures or liver perforation.” She felt Clint's gaze bore through her. “He has sustained multiple second degree burns along his right side and a third one at his shoulder—he'll need a skin graft. On top of that, he's been concussed. We're keeping a close eye on him. Honestly, it's a miracle he's still alive. Not everyone has a building fall on top of them and has lived to tell the tale...”

“Spit it out,” he murmured. “There's something else. There's always something else with SHIELD.”

Dr. Harvey lifted her lenses and wiped her eye. Clint's jaw locked and he lifted his head from the pillow, heart pounding in his chest.

“You're not saying it,” Clint spat, biting his lip. Feeling the tears well up again, he turned away from her. His knuckles turned white as he balled up the bedding in his heavily bandaged fists. “I can take it. Just get it over with.”

Dr. Harvey lowered her gaze and cleared her throat. “He experienced a lot of physical trauma—you should know, you helped dig him out—but, it was too much for his system. His body began spontaneously terminating the pregnancy about twenty minutes into his treatment.”

“A miscarriage,” Clint whispered. The world fell from beneath him. He wasn't prepared.

“After his more serious injuries were taken care of, we began expectant management. He will be under observation until the it fully passes.”

His hands trembled and he swallowed his visceral response. “How long?” he asked, voice wavering. He struggled to keep it down, to quell the rising roar in his lungs. "How long until it's over?"

“A few days, a week maybe.” Behind him he heard the click of her shoes approach his bed. "We won't be able to run any diagnostics until the brunt of his injury has passed. I'm sorry, Clint."

Clint turned away from her and felt his eyes welling up. His heart was still racing with distress and worry.

“He will have the best care available to him. If anything changes, we'll be right here to help.” He felt her soft touch on his wrist. “My condolences. I know you and Phil were...exploring the idea.”

He squinted his eyes shut, but the tears began to trickle down. “Idea” wasn't the right word. It was far too impersonal.

He imagined doing chores with Lila and Cooper. The sun was tacked perfectly in the blue sky. It was a hot summer's day. The wind swam through Laura's fields. Lila and Cooper were gathering kindling and, trailing behind them in little rubber boots was Julie, inspecting her reflection in the creek, twig firmly grasped in one hand.

“Was exploring...” Clint whispered. The fantasy shifted, the sky darkened and heavy rain pelted him without warning. Julie was nowhere to be found in the storm. His stomach dropped and he renewed his struggle against the restraints. He had to be near him, had to smell him and comfort him and...and he didn't know what else, but he didn't need to be in this fucking bed chained up like an animal.

Dr. Harvey switched the streams on his IV, and medication slipped through the tubing, sending a wave of artificial calm over his nerves and impulses. He put up one last struggle but quickly succumbed to the drugs. “Just rest, Barton. You both need rest.”

 

* * *

 

The moon was finally creeping downward and the early blue of morning was filtering into the room. Clint's eyes were heavy and vision murky. The TV in the corner blathered endlessly on, but could not compete with the dull throb of Phil, which he still felt as tenderly and acutely as his own burns and aches. He lifted one arm and folded his hand to work the buckle on his wrist, working through the sting of his wounds. He slipped free of the restraints and unbuckled the cuffs at his ankles.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stumbled as he fought for balance. His hand was on the handle, but the door was locked. He was still on lockdown for Alpha Interference. He slammed a fist into the door. As if he could hurt Phil any more than he had been already.

His eyes scanned the room and his gaze eventually made its way to the ceiling. He saw a ventilation grate. He dragged the chair from the corner underneath the grate and stood on top of it. He used the sharp metal tip of his IV feed to unscrew the lid. It fell to the linoleum with a sharp bang.

Hooking his hands on the edges, he hoisted himself into the shaft and settled on his stomach. He could smell Phil and he began his trek through the metal shafts, bruising his elbows and knees, his bandaged wounds stinging the whole way.

He followed Phil's scent until he reached another grate in the floor of the shaft. He worked the tip of the IV into the crevices and the grate popped loose. His arm shot out, catching it before it could fall. Slowly he lowered himself from the ceiling, stumbling as he landed.

And there he was, wrapped in the thin hospital sheets, bandages and gauze running up his left side and braces stabilizing his ribcage. He was asleep, but not snoring. Clint leaned over the railings, placing an ear to Phil's chest. He listened to the heartbeat. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his gown's sleeve.

Slowly he climbed into the bed beside him, keeping to his left side and gingerly wrapping and arm around Phil's, holding on and whispering soft, ineffectual comforts early into the morning.

 

* * *

 

“I have clearance,” Natasha said, glaring at the mousy receptionist. “I'm listed as one of his emergency contacts—form 22-5-A allows me to visit.”

The receptionist scanned the lists and at last nodded. “Barton's room is in the east wing, in the Alpha holding and treatment ward.”

“So he's still in holding,” Natasha said wistfully to herself. She followed the corridor, examining the heavy locks on each of the doors until she came to Barton's room. She rang one of the bells an the ward officer came over to unlock Barton's room. When the door swung open, she found his mattress in disarray, sheets and blanket spilling over the side, and the morning light bouncing off the grate's shiny slats.

“We have a missing Alpha,” the ward officer barked into his radio, “Detainee in room A-14 has escaped.”

Without a word, she marched over to the intensive care ward, with two beta ward officers trailing behind her, scanning each of the doors until they found Agent Coulson's room. She peaked through the bulletproof glass and, lit by sunrise, was Clint, entangled with Phil.

The officer began another transmission but she stayed his hand. “Let me handle this. You don't want to get on the wrong side of him now.” She turned and stared him down. He backed away and she slipped in the door, approaching the bed slowly.

“Clint,” she breathed. He stirred, looking over his shoulder. Sleeplessness rimmed his eyes and his hair stuck out in every direction. He eyed her cautiously, not breaking his gaze.

She slid over to the second chair and sat, slowly crossing her legs. “That was quite a feat, Clint,” she said. “Not everyone would've run headfirst into a collapsing, flaming building.”

Clint was quiet and he returned his attention to Phil.

“He's safe now,” she offered. “All thanks to you. The ambulances and fire department would have been too slow. You know that, don't you?”

Clint ran a hand over Phil's left arm, one of the few patches of skin not bandaged and covered. “Wasn't enough. He...”

Natasha lowered her head and folded her hands in her lap. She knew without him saying it out loud. “I see.”

“Not like this,” Clint said. “I wanted it to be his decision. I just wanted him to be ready for it when the time came. But not like this.” His voice broke.

“Come on, Clint. You need rest, and Phil needs some space.”

“You don't know what he needs, Nat," he shot back, voice cracked and weak.

Her hand was on his shoulder. “He needs space to heal. He's still all bandaged. You don't want to hurt him more, do you?”

Clint's mouth screwed up all small. “Let me wait here. Tell them to let me be here. Just until he wakes up.”

Natasha blinked back a tear. “I'll go talk to them,” she said. She leaned over, wrapping her arms about Clint's shoulders, squeezing tight.

 

* * *

 

The sun was amber and rose when he awakened. The room was all blurred corners and long shadows. He blinked once. Twice. Three times before the lines began to sharpen like the throbbing pains wracking his body. He stirred, began to sit up but fell back into the mattress.

He groaned, buckling under the pain in his ribs and lower down. His sinuses burned and he couldn't feel his toes. His eyes followed the IV line running from his arm to the bag beside him. Strewn across the small table were papers and folders, heavily perused. He had no idea what the date was.

Across the room, speaking in low dour tones was another in a dark green robe, barefoot. He inhaled. Clint.

“He's looking around, trying to get a sense of things,” he heard him say into the phone's receiver. He fell silent listening "Felt like it was the end of the world, Laura."

Phil began to speak but only a croak emerged. He drifted in and out.

“No. Not yet,” Clint said. He braced himself against the wall. “I'll tell him about Alexis when he's awake. I'll be here with him until then...No, I haven't eaten.”

The tide in his stomach rose and Phil leaned on one elbow, fighting the fatigue and throbbing sting in his limbs. “Tell me what?” he croaked.

Clint hung up the receiver and turned to face him. “Hey.” He walked slowly over to Phil, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. “We're in the med-ward. They transferred you from the intensive care unit to SHIELD's med-ward.” His brow wrinkled. “You took quite the spill, eh?”

Phil attempted to push himself up further, but could not find the strength. “What happened? Flight 3212…?” He blinked again and the room came into yet sharper focus.

“Re-routed to La Guardia. Some of the other international flights landed in Philly and some as far as Toronto. NYPD and SWAT are still flooding JFK. It's all over the news. Has been for the last few days. Doubt that'll end soon, but,” Clint smiled a small smile, "we did it, sir.”

Phil fell back against the pillow. Slowly the memories were trickling back; he was spiraling through sparks and rubble. The walls were collapsing in and glass splintered and burst all around him. The ground lurched sickeningly beneath him and he was sent free falling, papers and cabinets and shelving tumbling as the radio tower fell away. Through the glass he could see fire and smoke. He choked on the fumes and all he could hear ringing in his ears was Clint's voice calling his name. 

“Alexis. She's safe?”

Clint picked up his phone and there she was, standing at the podium safe and whole. "She gave her speech at the convention as planned. Well...maybe not as planned." Clint's eyes drifted over the screen, absent-mindedly. "But she got a standing ovation."

“Thank god.” He felt Clint's hand caress his cheek. When their eyes met, Clint squinted his eyes shut and frowned.

“What's wrong?” Phil croaked. Clint hushed him, quietly guiding him back down to the mattress. "What aren't you telling me?"

“Just rest. You're all banged up.” As soon as his head met the pillow again, his lids grew heavy and he slumbered.

When he next opened his eyes, Clint was clothed in his ripped jeans and leather jacket. Dr. Harvey and two others were standing near the foot of his bed. One was changing his IV drip and the other began to take his vitals.

He got his bearings much more quickly this time around. It was dark outside. The briefing papers and the accompanying report were neatly stacked on the side table. Suddenly a piercing light was shining into his eyes.

“Follow the light,” she said. It darted left and right and his gaze followed. She stepped back, conversing with one of the nurses in quiet tones. He watched Clint over her right soldier. His face was collapsed into a heavy frown. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like the Wicked Witch of the East,” Phil said. The corner of Clint's mouth twitched. Dr. Harvey cocked an eyebrow. “You know. I had a building fall on top of me. All that?”

She chuckled softly. “That's good to hear. Some pain is better than none at all.” She withdrew her clipboard and began detailing his injuries. Phil only listened and nodded. Altogether, it wasn't anything he's never experienced before, though never at the same time. He couldn't avoid Clint's lingering stare. He was too quiet for an Alpha seeing his omega safe and sound, albeit bruised and battered.

“Clint?” he mouthed.

Clint scratched his chin and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. The rest of Dr. Harvey's explanations fell on deaf ears. “Clint? What's wrong?” Phil was sitting up, despite his body's protests. He gripped the railings of the bed. Dr. Harvey touched his shoulder and waved Clint over. He stood at the foot of his bed, hands in his pockets now. Dr. Harvey and the others exited quietly.

Clint wiped his eyes and moved closer. “We're gonna have that talk now...just not the one we thought we'd be having.”

Phil's arms crept to his stomach and his jaw dropped slowly. “What's going on?”

Slowly Clint's hand found its way to Phil's knee, small mouth twisted into a frown. “We lost it, Phil. The incident on the runway...those _bastards_ with The Preservers...You were covered in rubble.” He paused. Phil breathed in slowly, loosening his arms and slowly reclining. “Turned out to be too much. She's gone.”

“Julie's gone?” Phil whispered. "But...what?" He brought his hands up to his eyes. He broke apart. Clint crawled into the cramped bed next to him, kicking off his boots. Phil looked away as Clint nuzzled into the nape of his neck; he was at a loss for words and instead went for gestures. His left hand, calluses catching on the fabric of the gauze, rubbed soft circles on his stomach. Phil was quiet when he wept, shoulders moving in subdued heaves. Each one stung.

The picture he had painted was running and soon the canvas was blank, but still stained.

They stayed like that for some time, Clint's heat radiating through his hospital gown and the bandages, touches penetrating the cloth, moving to his center which now lay vacant. Through the blur of tears, Phil considered the calendar on the far wall. His eyes traced the lines, the days filled with uncertainty and hope and punctuated each with neat Xs, and the day where they came to abrupt halt.

His whole life was dictated by passages of time, cut and quarantined. Awake at 4:00 a.m., asleep at 10:00 p.m. or whenever he could afford to. Operations blocked off entire sections of the calendars, days or even weeks when his life would be put on hold; and at the end of them he would block off yet more hours to process the aftermath, all according to the endless webs of scheduling and espionage.

He choked. With the child, with Julie, there was a chance for those patterns to break apart, for the burdens of the world to lift to make room. For the unexpected to grow. He would have been awake and asleep according to her needs—feeding, changing, or just holding and swaying with her at three in the morning, quieting her tears. And Clint would be there, eyes sleepless from his diligent care as opposed to tireless vigil in his nests in Alaska or France or Istanbul or Beijing. And oh, how they would smile.

Phil didn't remember when he drifted off again. His sleep was murky and confused, neither dream nor nightmare, but exhausting void.

When he awoke it was dark again. A nurse was checking his bandages, his IV and his vitals and finally his bedpan. Phil looked away when he scented blood. The nurse sat down quietly and explained to Phil the plan for the next few days. Phil sniffed one last time and haphazardly grabbed a pen and paper from the night stand. He took notes.

“Essentially, we are going to be waiting and watching. Expectant management,” he explained. “Spontaneous terminations proceed in a somewhat predictable manner, though the causes rarely are. In this case, we are going to let your body do what it needs to while checking for any complications—infection, incomplete terminations and obstructions. We'll take care not to interrupt the healing of your other injuries, so movement must be limited.”

Phil nodded solemnly, writing down the steps in a neat hand. Already he was returning to his rhythm. Nothing to be done, nothing to be helped. Cut and dry.

Clint frowned when he read Phil's notes. The paper crinkled in his hands. “So...we just wait?”

Phil offered his hand and Clint took it. “There's nothing else to be done,” he said quietly.

“They won't let you come home?”

Phil shook his head. “It's better if I'm here. If there are any complications with my fractures or...” he paused when Clint squeezed. “Anyway, it will be better. Safer.”

“Well I guess I'll be here too, then,” Clint said. “They gotta have a cot or something for me to use. Alphas can stay with their bondmates. Been reading about it."

Phil shifted, trying to turn toward Clint, but the pain in his ribs limited his movement. “Thank you. Thank you.” Clint leaned in, placing a kiss on Phil's lips and wiping his eyes.

“Stay here,” Phil said, a rush of tumultuous emotions swelling and overflowing in his chest. “Right here. I don't—I don't want to be alone.”

“I love you,” Clint said. “Meeting you was the best goddamn thing that's ever happened to me. No matter what happens, I'll never leave, okay?” He sighed, but didn't draw away. “Just so you know.”

Without another word, Clint stripped off his shirt and boots and climbed into bed beside Phil, rocking him slowly to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Another nurse was in the next morning to take blood for diagnosis and to examine the bedpan, which still showed signs of light bleeding, which he assured him was normal. Phil asked him what the blood sample was for.

“We need to see if your body is still producing hormones for the recent pregnancy. Normally we would do an ultrasound as well, but you're under strict orders for bed rest at the moment. Don't want to disturb those ribs.”

 

* * *

 

“Every single office at the Pentagon is bustling,” Natasha said.

“More like panicking,” Phil scoffed. “What went down at the airport wasn't any two-bit plan. It must've taken goddamn months for something like that to be implemented.”

“The FBI is beginning their inquiry this week,” Natasha said, piling more newspapers and emailing him links to other stories surrounding the incident at JFK. Photos littered their pages: the rubble and fire of the downed radio tower, bullet holes riddling the terminals, large sweeping shots of the explosives lined up near black vans. "Of course, SHIELD is way ahead of them," she added.

“And it's all thanks to you,” Phil said, slight grin emerging. “Without the evidence you gathered at the airport...we never would have been able to concretely link the Preservers to the Family Conservation Front otherwise. Or it would have taken much longer. Who knows what they would have done in the meantime.”

Natasha smiled and waved him off. “And If you hadn't sent out that emergency signal, a lot more people would have died that day. The Preservers would've gotten what they wanted...”

“And instead they're gonna get the FBI and SHIELD up in their grill,” Clint added, closing the door slowly behind him. Phil spied the cellphone in his hand and sank back in his bed.

While Dr. Harvey was checking in with him the other day, Phil and Clint both decided that Laura would be the first to know. They figured the good news of Alexis' return and her subsequent speeches at the Omega Reproductive Rights Conference would temper the news of their loss. Clint's gaze trailed to the linoleum and he sighed heavily as he sank into the chair beside him.

“What did she say?” Phil asked.

“You're gonna be getting a ton of flowers...not store bought. She's sending them from the farm—hydrangeas, zinnias, pincushions,” Clint said quietly. “She said she's sorry." He took a deep breath. "And that she'd never be able to thank you enough.”

The three fell silent for a moment. Clint worried the palm of Phil's hands and Natasha set down her tablet.

“I volunteered,” she said simply. “I ship out in two days.”

“Natasha,” Clint said. “Are you sure?” He laced their fingers together and held her tight.

“Like Phil said,” her eyes wandered over to the bed, “it's personal.” She began gathering the well-discussed documents and packing them neatly beside Phil's bed.

“We'll be dealing with state-side affairs first. I won't be far.” She tied her hair back and considered the piles of newspaper clippings, SHIELD reports and documents all centered on the FPF's operations in Kansas and Iowa. “They're going to wish it was _just_ the FBI at their front door.”

“They're still big, Natasha. And dangerous. People like that—ideas like that—don't just give up when they're backed into a corner,” Phil said.

Natasha smiled and met his eyes.. “They do when I'm the one driving them there.”

“I'd like to have you around a bit longer, but,” Clint said, looking to Phil, “it might be better—you know, for the sake of the world—if they have you there.” Phil's bandages were fresh and new and the cast about his left arm extended past his elbow. The cuts on his face were beginning to close and the bandages from his burns were set to be removed later that afternoon. He rubbed Phil's knee.

“You know it,” Natasha said. She checked her watch. “I have to go. Briefing and orientation. Have to get that Middle-America twang down.” She stood by Phil's bed leaning over to hold him tight. She leaned in close. “I know you would've made the right choice,” she whispered.

Phil leaned into her touch. “Thank you, Nat.” He wiped his eye. “Give 'em hell, all right?”

Natasha chuckled. “Well, obviously.”

 

* * *

 

Phil nearly jumped when he heard the door open. He had nearly dozed off. Clint was off getting food. “Something real greasy,” he had said.

Dr. Harvey entered with an extra specialist in tow, an omega with a long ponytail. “Nathan,” he said. “Obstetric Sonographer.”

Phil cocked an eyebrow. “An ultrasound technician? I thought it was too soon.”

“We've been looking through your blood work. You're still producing the pregnancy hormones.”

“Why is that a problem?” Phil asked, heart rate on the rise.

“Retention,” Nathan interjected. “If your body is still producing at an elevated rate, there may be a chance that some blockages are developing. We need to know in case medical intervention to clear those blockages are necessary or induce more passing. You're already moving through this slower than we would like.”

“We don't want to risk any infections. Especially since your system is still mending,” Dr. Harvey reassured him. She told him that he was scheduled in that day. He figured it was best if Clint was not there.

“Leave a note with the receptionists,” Phil ordered. “If he comes back and I'm not here with no explanation, I'd never forgive myself. And you'd have to restrain him again.” She reassured him they already have.

When the time came—after a near agonizing wait—a duo helped him from his bed and onto the wheel chair. He looked in the mirror for the first time in days. To his surprise, his cheeks had color, and the skin on his right side had begun to mend, though it still stung beneath the bandages.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the pedals of the wheelchair and they wheeled him into the hall. SHIELD's hospital was connected to a larger facility two blocks down, so the walk through the subterranean tunnels proved long. Never in his life did he think he would be visiting any natal care facilities. The smells and sounds, even the look of the technology was sadly unfamiliar.

When at last they reached Nathan's neck of the woods, he helped him onto the table. The room was already dim, the buttons on the monitors and the ultrasound instruments softly glowing like candles. He laid Phil back as gingerly as he could manage and began warming up the equipment. Phil watched him as he applied the gel to his lower abdomen, hissing at the sudden cold. He was only used to Clint's warmth for the past few days, and it proved to be a wake-up call more than anything else. This was happening, he thought, then he'd recover, then he'd get back to work and move past this. His heart pounded in his ears.

The transducer began its whirring hiss and Nathan began his work. He watched the screen, examining the grainy images beginning to take shape. Phil looked away, telling himself that his was merely another step in recovery, but really he didn't want to confront the void. He squinted his eyes shut and concentrated on his breathing.

“Okay, that might be the blockage,” he heard her nail tap the monitor's screen. “Focus on this area right here.”

“On it,” Nathan said.

Phil felt the tip of the transducer make trails in the gel on his skin. He hated the intrusive poking and prodding. He wanted it to be over with, he just wanted everything to be over with. Then he heard Dr. Harvey gasp.

Phil froze, his heart crept to his throat. A complication, some harsh reminder of this whole nightmare was to linger. He swore under his breath. "What is it?"

“Well, I guess 'blockage' is one way to put it,” Nathan chuckled. Phil's eyes shot open and he turned to face the screen. It was hard to make out the shades of black and gray, but something was on the screen. Something instead of nothing, a form depicted on the glass.

“Phil,” Dr. Harvey started. “We have an embryo, Phil. A whole one. My god.”

Nathan outlined an area with a laser pointer. “There you have the head, torso, some growing limbs.” He curled up his arms. “They're kinda tucked in there. Do you see, Phil?”

Phil was at a loss for words. In vain he tried to move closer to the screen, as if the angle or a glare of the dim light were somehow playing him the fool. Were he not lying down, his knees would have buckled beneath him.

“The heart's beating.”

With a gentle hand, Dr. Harvey turned the monitor to face Phil, but the image didn't change, nothing disappeared or shifted . He felt his eyes welling up again. Nathan handed him a box of tissues and Phil took three, dabbing at his eyes.

He watched the form pulse and settle. This was inside of him, whole and living. In a sudden rush, the fantasies flooded his mind once more: birthday candles, diplomas, car keys, baby shoes, summer vacations and winter snow days all erupting in his mind. He could hardly think. He was faced with this impossibility, one that survived the rubble and fire and the Preservers and the goddamn Family Conservation Front's attempt on his life.

“Get me a phone,” Phil said, hands shaking as he conjured up Clint's number. "Now."

 

* * *

 

Clint sprinted through the streets at full speed. His lungs were on fire as he checked in to the natal care ward, foot tapping impatiently as they processed him yet again. Even before the receptionist gave him the okay, he resumed his sprint.

He slid across the tiles and turned back to the receptionist. “Which way?” he demanded, running a hand through his hair. The receptionist rolled her eyes and pointed him in the right direction. His boots slammed against the linoleum. Faintly, he traced Phil's scent and he followed it until it got stronger and stronger until he reached the ultrasound room.

He crashed into the door, nearly knocking it off its hinges. It opened a crack and he saw Dr. Harvey. “What's going on? Phil didn't say anything. Tell me he's okay.”

She opened the door wider and there was Phil, clothed now, legs hanging over the side of the observation table. Clint approached him and knelt down. “Are you okay? Is something wrong? A complication? Say something!"

Phil smiled softly and nodded toward the empty space near him. Nathan and Dr. Harvey took their leave. “We'll be outside, Phil.”

In his hands he held another folder with his name printed sloppily in the upper right corner. He took out three transparent printouts and handed them to Clint. He held them to the light, squinting, concentrating.

“I have no idea what I'm looking at,” Clint said, turning to Phil. Phil took the sheet and flipped it sideways.

“It's an ultrasound. _My_ ultrasound,” Phil said quietly, trying to subdue his excitement. He crossed his ankles and tucked his hands neatly in his lap.

“I don't—I don't understand, Phil.”

“I can't say I do either.” He refused to call it a miracle; he was his mother's son, after all. He took out another sheet, this one helpfully outlined the profile of the embryo in purple. Clint held it close to his face, eyes tracing the outline again and again. Disbelief played across his features; his jaw was slack, his eyes wide, he couldn't speak, couldn't begin to form the words to express himself.

Phil took a deep breath. “I'm still pregnant, Clint. Twins. It was twins the whole time.” Clint gripped his thigh. “We still lost one, but,” his smile was wide, yet somber, “you're getting the talk you wanted, Clint. The one _we_ needed.”

Clint couldn't rip his eyes from the printout, afraid that if he looked away, the little outline would vanish and he wouldn't be able to find it again.

“Y-you're sure. You don't want to wait until…?”

Phil shook his head. “I'm not waiting another second. It was presumptuous to wait with our line of work. Too many ways for things to go wrong. And some of them already came to pass.”

Clint swallowed. “Phil...”

He took the sheet from Clint and studied the outline. This was theirs. This _could_ be theirs. All they needed were the words to go with them.

Phil beckoned Clint closer and he sat beside him, hands folding in Clint's, keeping him anchored.

“At the airport runway, when I felt the floor crumble beneath my feet and when everything was collapsing around me...I thought of you, Clint.” Phil leaned over, tucking himself in Clint's chest.

“Me?” Phil nodded against his chest.

Phil's eyes began to water but he continued on. “I thought I was going to die. That I was going to die and that I was going to leave you all alone with nothing to remember me by, no one to call your own any longer. I couldn't stand thinking that, even for the handful of seconds it took for the tower to fall.”

“I just imagined you coming home,” Phil continued, voice cracking, “to an empty apartment, with no one to care for—because you care so goddamn much, and I love you for it—and with no one to treat you the same way.” Clint rubbed his shoulder, fingers easing into the nape of Phil's neck.

“Couldn't have been as bad as watching that tower collapse. With you in it,” Clint said. "Worst moment in my whole life."

Phil shook his head and attempted a light chuckle, failing miserably. “I knew I would never forgive myself if I put you in that position. I just spent so much time thinking about the bad, losing hope little by little, imagining horrible scenarios.”

“You just think a lot,” Clint said, keeping a solid front. “That's not a bad thing.”

“But I was thinking the wrong things. Never about the good things, just what could go wrong and I forgot about what could...”

“What could go right?” Clint offered. Phil nodded against his chest, then pulled away, wiping his eye.

“And if we have this then...if something happens to one of us, we can still be together, in a way. That we can have a reminder of the other and raise her up to be the best she can. And I know we can, Clint...but that's just...just what I've been thinking,” Phil said, tucking away the printout. “It's your turn.”

“ _My_ turn?” Clint said, smile spreading on his face. “I think you already took my turn for me.”

“What?”

“I'm agreeing with you, Phil,” Clint said. Phil locked eyes with him—his Alpha, his Clint, the father of his child. “But, for the record, I think you'd be an amazing parent. You always think about the stuff I forget about, and you're so amazing. You would be so amazing and...and I want you to see that too. I think you're already beginning to see that.”

“Clint,” Phil said. He was at a loss for words. Everything was blurring around the edges and he was filled with warmth.

“And you're right,” Clint began, “the world's a shitty place. You just gotta look at the news to see that. But you know what they don't put in the news? Happy things. Good people. Parents or kids or grandparents or big brothers or Natasha. You never see any of them in the news.”

Clint scratched his head, casting his eyes to the upper corner of the room. “And the bad things...they're gonna happen, but we can handle them, Phil. I know we can. I mean, I'm proof. I'm the proof that good can come outta bad,” he said, chuckling dryly.

“Even after all the things I've been through. The circus, my fucking dad and...Barney's death. I'm still me. And you _love_ me, Phil.”

Phil laughed, throat catching on the lump. “Good point.”

“And this isn't about me not havin' a good family—I'm through with that. This is about _us_ having one,” Clint said, nearly jabbing a finger into Phil's chest.

“So...that's a yes,” Phil said, smile ever-widening and his hold on Clint tightening. “Wow. I feel...”

"Excited?

"Yes. And scared, but more excited."

“Yeah,” Clint said simply. “I mean, as long as you're saying yes, I'm saying yes.”

Phil wrapped his arms around Clint's shoulders. “I'm saying yes, Clint. We're doing this.”

Clint nuzzled his neck, smothering Phil in proud kisses. He pulled out the printout again, his finger tracing the small outline of life they created together. He jumped off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Phil called after him.

“I'm getting that what's-it-called-ultrasound-guy back in here.” He turned, waving the transparency. “I want to see this thing in action.” Phil wheezed with laughter and braced his ribcage. 

 

 

 


	4. Epilogue

* * *

 

 

“Oh my god, this one doesn't fit either,” Phil lamented. He palmed through the suits arrayed neatly in the walk-in closet. “None of these are going to fit.”

“Why the hell do you a need a suit for the farm?” Clint called from the kitchen.

“I wanted to wear one to Lila and Cooper's piano recital!”

Clint poked his head in. “I don't think they'll be offended if you just come in slacks and a tie.”

“Says the one who owns neither,” Phil said. He was a mess; they were set to leave early the next morning on a private SHIELD jet, a sort of baby-shower gift from Nick Fury.

“Don't dent her up to bad,” Fury had said, fingers tapping on his desk.

“We're not piloting the jet, are you kidding?” Phil said.

“That's not what I meant,” Fury shot back, smile creeping across his face and a hand shooting up quickly to disguise it.

Phil threw his hands up and ended up grabbing a white shirt and a periwinkle shirt and folding them into his suitcase with a tie that matched both. Clint was right. If he has learned one thing in the couple of months, it was that sweatpants and baggy t-shirts were his best friends.

Clint surprised him as Phil was coming into the bedroom. He had a handful of menus in hand. “Pick one.”

Phil recoiled. “What happened to the steamed kale and the chickpea soup?”

“You can eat the leftovers if you want, but I'm having something greasy and horrible and no good for me,” Clint said. “Besides, don't you have those pre-natal vitamins?”

“Yes, but it's important to maintain a healthy diet and active lifestyle as well, Clint.” Phil looked down and sighed. He pinched his stomach and sides. “Not that it shows at all, but still.”

“I'm sure one time isn't going to hurt.”

Phil's stomach grumbled. “Ok, fine. But no lo-mein. Still can't even think of it after the last time.”

“Okay, how about Indian?” Clint was already unfolding the menu.

“Get extra nan. All of it.”

“Of course, babe,” Clint said, leaning over to plant kisses all over Phil. "All the nan for you."

 

* * *

 

Clint was the first one to shoot up to applaud and the other parents and family members quickly followed his example. Phil was a little slower to join him but he clapped louder than everyone around him. Laura laughed and Alexis finally put down her camera and looked on without the mediating lens.

After the show, when all of Ms. Smith's students lined up to take a bow, the two of them ran at full speed to tackle Clint. And they all talked and rambled and giggled all the way home.

Clint ran inside and grabbed his duffle bag. The kids gathered around him and squealed as he pulled out a jumbo pack of smoke bombs and sparklers. Laura looked to Phil, mouth hanging open.

“What?” Clint said, “It's a tradition.”

Phil whispered in Laura's ear. “Humor him. Please?”

Laura swept her hair behind her ears. “Fine, but only after you change into play clothes and clear out the fire pit,” she urged. “Okay? And you're cleaning up afterwards.”

They eagerly agreed and ran up the steps to their bedrooms. Alexis was already in the kitchen, checking the dough she set inside the fridge and getting out the cutting board. Phil joined her, watching the chef at work.

“Don't worry, it won't clog you up,” she said brusquely. “Had a lot of practice cooking for an expecting omega.”

“It'll be real good, you don't even know,” Laura called from the patio. She watched Clint clearing away the fire pitand making certain there were no lingering strands of grass or matches or anything that could catch fire.

Alexis knew her kitchen like the back of her hand. She chopped like an expert, careful and regular. Somehow she made the time to clean up behind her as she worked and Phil chuckled, recalling the messes that Clint regularly made while he cooked.

“You and Clint should talk.”

“Oh, really?” she said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Really. _I'm_ the one who can't really cook. You should've seen my fridge before he came along. It was pathetic, really,” he said. “He said my refrigerator 'leaves a lot to be desired.'”

And she worked in contented silence for some time. He could tell that thoughts were percolating, but wanted her to say the first word.

Once all the ingredients were neatly divided into colorful bowls, she washed the cutting board and knife. “Thank you,” she said. “I can never thank you enough, but it's the best I can manage, Phil. Thank you.”

“I was just doing my duty,” Phil said.

“You did more than that, Phil. Laura told me what Clint said about you running off on your own, bombs and armed terrorist and god-knows what else.” He joined her at the sink and reached into the dishwater. She held him firmly by the arm. “No way, you're not doing a single thing while you're here.”

“Certainly, I can handle some dishes.”

She scoffed and grinned, resting her hand on her hip. “Laura was right, you really don't know what vacations are.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner left them both comatose. Phil sagged in his seat, sated and full. Darting between them was Alexis and Laura, clearing dishes and chatting.

Clint's ears pricked up and before anyone could respond he was up and at the front door, peering through the peephole.

He smiled wide and nearly tore the door off its hinges. “Natasha! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Making a pit-stop,” she said. She was in street-clothes, hair curly and shortened. Behind her a black car pulled silently out of the driveway and into the dark. She wrapped her arms around Clint's neck and he lifted her off the floor.

“Who's this?” Laura said, eyeing Natasha almost-cautiously.

“Uh...a co-worker,” Clint said.

 

* * *

 

Natasha and Alexis were still long-engaged in conversation about Alexis' work. Alexis brought out a map and made her mark every city and locale she has visited over her career and Natasha did the same. They compared notes on the food, which theaters were best and sharing little-known holes-in-the -wall that obliterated the touristy competition.

Laura was off putting the kids to bed, while Phil still lazed on the couch, full from the rich dessert. He eyed the SHIELD tablet near Clint's side of the couch, which was still warm from his body. He knew he shouldn't check his work email, but the stubborn agent in him couldn't resist pulling it toward him.

He flicked through his email as quickly as he could manage and swiftly closed it once he heard Clint's plodding footsteps down the hallway. He opened up the browser as a ruse and was surprised at what he saw.

Opened in multiple tabs were pages on adoption. He flicked again; the timeline of adoption. Again; the adoption centers in Manhattan.

“What are you looking at?” Clint said innocently as he collapsed into the couch beside Phil.

“I should be asking you that question,” Phil answered.

He shrugged and smiled that sheepish smile that made Phil melt.

“I was just thinking. Maybe if she wants a brother or sister,” Clint shrugged, “someone to hang out with or teach stuff to then...we might as well be prepared, right?”

Phil was speechless but swelling with warmth and affection. He pulled Clint close and kissed him. His Alpha surged in response, leaving a small trail of kisses along his jaw. In the next room, deliberating over a world-map, Natasha chuckled.

“We'll get coffee and go over the details,” Phil said.

“Soon?”

“No time like the present.”

 

 

**End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being so patient! I know I preemptively posted this almost a whole month ago and deleted it, so thank you for sticking through the wait.
> 
> I don't think this will be the end of the series. If anything, I have a whole new genre to explore.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler Warning!
> 
>  
> 
> Here are the potentially triggering things contained in this story:
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Phil has a miscarriage and he and Clint deal with the aftermath. It is implied/not described too much as it is happening.  
> 2\. The anti-abortion protesting refers to a conservative group SHIELD is keeping track of. The language they employ is very similar to something one would hear in news stories about real life groups. They protest healthcare clinics and their leader is anti-abortion.  
> 3\. SHIELD is also dealing with and discussing a foreign terrorist group and their actions. None of their violence is explicitly described. The description is as neutral and non-graphic as regular news programming typically is, though they are referenced at several points in the story.  
> 4\. I re-treat Natasha's surgery from Age of Ultron. Here, she is accepting. She does not regret her decision and does not think less of herself in ANY WAY for her decision. The surgery is not explicitly described, only referenced.  
> 5\. There are also descriptions of some pregnancy symptoms such as vomiting.   
> 6\. The reference to Alpha Privilege refers to the fact that Alphas in this AU have historically (and wrongly) held the reins as far as omega birth-control/body-autonomy are concerned. The history is referenced and not thoroughly expanded upon, but is one of the driving forces behind the thematic elements in this story.  
> 7\. The violence in the action sequence can get a bit graphic; description of gunshots and people falling in the line of duty are described. And not much is left to the imagination. That being said, I've written more graphic violence before.
> 
> If you feel that anything else warrants a mention here, please do not hesitate to message me.


End file.
